


Well, That Just Happened

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Inquisitor, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Triangles, Slow Burn, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:26:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 71,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I just like shooting arrows and reading books, but now my hand glows and everyone expects me to do something. And there's a distractingly attractive commander and a rugged Grey Warden who make things even more complicated. I'm not fit to be an Inquisitor, and I'm sure as hell not the Herald of Andraste. Where does that even come from, anyway? I'm in so far over my head.<br/>-Fiona Trevelyan<br/>(Bits and pieces of an incredibly confused Inquisitor's journey.)</p><p>*On hiatus*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Herald

**Author's Note:**

> Haven, War Room.

I laugh shortly, expecting them to join in. Except they don’t. They just stare at me with their grim expressions.

            “Shit, you’re serious?” I ask, my face falling. “Look, I can wave my hand around at the hole in the sky,” I wiggle my fingers at them. “That’s all fine and good. But calling me the Herald of Andraste is… well it’s ridiculous!”

            “The chantry would agree,” Leliana says quietly.

            Josephine peers at me from over the candle she has fashioned on a little board for her papers. “The chantry has denounced the Inquisition—and you, specifically.”

            I groan. “Of course they do. This is considered blasphemy, isn’t it? Can’t we just tell them I’m not the herald of anything? We could run up a banner over Haven that says ‘There is no Herald of Andraste here, please move along’.”

            Cassandra’s glaring at me, looking disappointed. The commander, however, seems slightly amused, the corners of his mouth twitching. I notice now that he has a scar on his lip, which doesn’t detract from his good looks in the slightest.

            “The chantry considers us all heretics now, as members of the Inquisition.” Josephine says. I realize I’ve been ogling Commander Cullen, tapping the top of my toes against the floor. Quickly, I put my foot back on the stone and return my attention to the conversation at hand. This definitely isn’t the time to be appreciating the view, no matter how nice it is.

            “Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra crosses her arms.

            “It limits our options. Approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question.” Josephine informs me.

            “Great. While yelling blasphemy is so  _very_ productive, isn’t the breach the main problem here?” I scratch the back of my head.

            “They do know it’s a threat, they just don’t think that _we_ can stop it.” Commander Cullen says.

            I frown. “Well how are they trying to stop it? All I see them doing is making these dictates against the Inquisition. Maybe they could write one against the breach, and see if it’ll close up. If they denounce it loudly enough, it just might work.” I realize I’m rambling and clamp my mouth shut, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.

            They stare again, but Josephine cracks a smile. Cassandra is still looking at me like I’ve got something growing out of my forehead.

            “There _is_ something you can do.” Leliana puts in, drawing attention away from me, which I’m immediately grateful for. “A chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

            “So, I’m guessing this means she’s not one of the chantry clerics who wants my head on a stick?” I ask, still finding it odd that the chantry would care about me at all. I was always just the youngest Trevelyan who was utterly unimportant until I woke up with my hand glowing in a prison. I glance down at the mark now, which is emitting a low, dull green light. Stupid rifts, and stupid mark, with stupid holes in the sky. I don’t even know how it all happened, thanks to the gaps in my memory.

            “From what I know of her, you should have nothing to fear. You will find her in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe.” Leliana clasps her hands together in front of her, the massive gloves she’s wearing making her arms look oddly bent.

            Josephine and the commander tell me I should look to help the Inquisition as I’m traveling, and attempt to gather agents.

            “And you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them,” Josephine tells me.

            I blink at her. “What? Why?”

            “You’re the one who can seal the breach—the one they know as the Herald.” Josephine answers.

            “But I’m not-”

            “It is what they believe, Lady Trevelyan.” Leliana cuts in, her voice light. “You are the one they recognize, the person they know as their savior.”

            I swallow uncomfortably. “This may not be the best time to tell you that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but I probably should. I also am terrible at talking to people, and I tend to ramble a bit. Or say stupid things. I’m not sure I should be the one recruiting anyone at all.”

            “None of us truly know how to face this threat,” Leliana paces around the table, looking at me with her sharp blue eyes. “But you are a symbol of hope to the people. The sky has been torn open, and you are the one who can seal it again.”

            “I almost prefer the time when you thought I was a criminal,” I mutter under my breath. No pressure, or anything. “Alright, I’ll go speak to this Mother Giselle. But if I say something wrong and end up strung up in some prison again, I’ll be able to say that I tried to warn you.”

            “In the meantime, let’s continue to think of other options as well,” Cassandra says, steely gaze moving from me to the others. “I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

            There it is again. Herald. I much prefer my own name to it. I can’t remember someone called me Fee—or even Fiona, for that matter. “To the Hinterlands, then?” I ask.

            Maker guide me, I hope I don’t screw this up. Apparently, there’s a lot of people that are depending on me. Stupid mark. I sigh and then realize I’m still standing at the table, and haven’t moved even an inch. “Um, I suppose I should ask you for directions?”


	2. Scouting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hinterlands.

“You seem like you’ve done this a lot,” Varric comments as I slide down the boulder without much attempt at grace.

            “Climbing on top of big rocks?” I ask, adjusting my bow over my shoulder.

            Varric chuckles. “Scouting. I hadn’t expected a Lady Trevelyan to know much about the wilderness at all. But we’re almost back at Haven, and it’s because of you that we’ve been able to either avoid or ambush the rogue Templar and mage groups. I gotta give it to you-- it’s impressive. You’ve got good eyes.”

            I feel myself blush a little at his praise. “You’ve been helping me. And Cassandra’s especially good at ambushes, charging in and sticking people with her sword,” I divert the attention away from myself.

Thankfully, I’m not walking back to Haven in shame. Mother Giselle agreed to come to Haven with a group of Inquisition troops as an escort, which means I didn’t offended her terribly. On the other hand, she told me I should speak to the chantry in Val Royeaux. I’m trying not to thinking about it. Maybe Josephine will find someone more diplomatic to send. Like herself. Maker, even a toad will be better. Perhaps I should look for a toad on the road back to present as a stand in.

            I’m desperate. Inquisitioning is not my strong suit.

            “Where’d you learn how to navigate the wilderness so well?” Varric questions breezily. When most people ask things, it makes me uncomfortable. I have to stumble over words as I try to think of an answer. But Varric is somehow much easier to speak with. For one, he doesn’t call me Herald. He also laughs, and it’s contagious.

            “Back in Ostwick. I liked to go out on my own a lot- sometimes for several days at a time- and just explore.”

“And here Ruffles makes it sound like nobles in the Free Marches just go to fancy balls all the time.” Varric says. I have to rack my brain to remember that Varric calls Josephine by that name.

“Plenty of nobles do that,” I tell him. “But as the youngest child of five, I had enough older siblings to deal with that sort of thing. They were better at it, at any rate. When I dance I stomp on toes. Once my reputation for feet mutilation gets out at balls, I’m left standing in the corner. Which is, I suppose, where I like being.”

Varric shakes his head, though he looks amused. “Feet mutilation you say? Remind me never to ask you to dance. But for the record, I’m just glad you spent your time on skills like archery and surviving in the middle of nowhere. It’s been helpful for us.”

“I had to learn,” I tell him. “I wasn’t keen on the idea of traipsing through roots that could give me a rash, or stumbling into traps.” Speaking of traps, I see a fennec caught in one. The metal is clamped shut over her tail, and upon our approach, she lets out a weak cooing sound.

            I deliberately slow my steps. If I terrify the fennec any further, she’ll probably try to run and end up doing even more damage to her tail.

            “Well that doesn’t look pleasant,” Varric mutters, but I notice that he hangs back, allowing me to approach alone.

            The fennec’s ears are back, eyes wide as I squat down next to her. She remains still though, and I mumble, “Pretty girl, we’ll get you out of here. Yes, we will.” Nonsensical talk to animals and small children seem to come naturally to me. After all, they don’t really give a damn about what I say, it’s just the sounds and communication that matter.

            Maybe in Val Royeaux, I could try baby talk and see if it works on the clerics. _‘Who’s going to support the Inquisition? We are. Yes, we all are!’_ Insert some clucking noises, and they’ll be wrapped around my finger.

            I realize my desperation has grown to new levels. Or maybe I just need a good nights sleep. I can’t remember the last time I’ve actually slept soundly.

            I manage to pry the trap open, and slide the fennec’s tail out safely. She doesn’t run, however, just looks at me with obvious pain. I hold a hand out slowly, and she snuffles my palm, whiskers tickling. She’s in no shape to be finding food for herself.

            Gently, I pick her up. She’s small enough to carry easily, and too tired to panic.

            “Andraste’s mercy, how did you do that?” Varric’s voice makes me realize that I forgot he was even there.

            I blink, turning around to face him. “Do what?”

            He looks at me incredulously, shaking his head. “Did you pick up animal whispering during your travels in Ostwick?”

            The fennec nuzzles into my arm, and I know I should get her back to camp. Solas and Cassandra are waiting there, at any rate. “I’m better with animals than I am with anything else,” I tell Varric as we begin down the rocky slope again. “If you’d asked me: would you rather speak to Mother Giselle, or face a rampaging drunken bear—I would’ve said the bear.”

            Varric chortles, and I grin. Having someone laugh at the odd things I say is new, and I like it. “You weren’t even half bad with the chantry lady. I’d like to know how you would’ve handled that bear, though.”

            “Easy,” I say. “Back away slowly and pray that I taste unappealing.” I see the tents up ahead, and look down at the fennec. “Do you think Cassandra will kill me if I ask to give some of our dinner to this little girl?”

            “I’d say no one can resist those big fennec eyes, but the Seeker just might be able to.” Varric tells me.

            “What will I be able to do?” Cassandra asks, poking her head out of the tent. Solas is sitting by the fire, legs folded neatly underneath him.

            I try to smile, though I’m sure it looks more like a cringe. I’m still half scared to death of the Seeker. “We have a new addition to our party!” I say with tentative enthusiasm, nodding to the fennec in my arms.

            Cassandra’s face is expressionless as she looks from me to the fennec, then back at me again. She sighs, then asks, “Did you see any threats around the campsite?”

            “Not a one,” Varric answers, moving to sit next to Solas. The elf is observing me again. I can always tell that’s what he’s doing—observing. He seems to be constantly calculating, waiting for something, while remaining cool and collected externally. Yet he’s been friendly as well. He even listens to me when I ramble, and then tells me stories about his adventures in the Fade.

“Thanks to Bright Eyes here, I’d say we can relax for a bit,” Varric scratches his chin and looks lazily into the flames.

            I grin, realizing Varric’s given me a nickname. Cassandra is staring at the fennec. “It hurt its tail?” She sounds like she’s trying to be disinterested.

            “She was caught in a trap,” I say, warming internally to the Seeker as Cassandra continues to watch the little fennec in my arms. “Would you mind holding her while I get a few scraps of meat?”

            Cassandra’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “I’m not—I don’t—I would not know how to hold it.”

            “She won’t give you any trouble. She’s too exhausted. Here, hold out your hands.” It’s so much easier to talk to Cassandra when she’s not giving me that unnerving, intense look. And she seems _nervous_ as I gently give the fennec to her and turn to get some of the dried jerky I have in my pack. The fierce, battle-worn, brash Seeker apprehensive about holding a little fennec?

            Maybe Cassandra’s not as intimidating as I thought.

            Then I remember seeing her cut down Templars, slice through bandits, and bash in mage heads. Definitely intimidating.

            I glance back to see her uncomfortably holding the fennec, worry on her face. Then the fennec brushes against her armor, and I see a flash of a smile.

            The night feels calm.

If the mark on my hand makes me the only one that can help the Inquisition, I don’t have much of a choice about helping. I _want_ to help. Yet it’s all terrifying.

            As Cassandra quickly hides her smile with her usual stony expression and Varric tells Solas about how to play Diamondback, I feel like at the very least, I’m with the right people.

            And with the sky tearing apart, it’s impossible for things to get worse. Isn’t it?

            Shit, I don’t want to think about it.


	3. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven, Chantry.

“Herald?”

            I groan. Not that damn title again. “Andraste can stuff it and go find someone else,” I grumble irritably. I rub my eyes, forcing them to open, and blink at the commander standing over me.

            “I… uh. It’s not Andraste looking for you at the moment,” Cullen says, looking slightly uncomfortable as his hand goes to the back of his neck.

            “Right. Sorry.” I realize I must’ve fallen asleep, though I have no idea how much time has passed. I’m curled up toward the front of the chantry in a shadowy corner. Staring up at Cullen, I immediately wonder if I have drool on my face. Or if I was sleeping with my mouth open. “Do I need to be somewhere, Commander?” I ask quickly, getting to my feet unceremoniously.

            “Josephine wanted to speak with you before we all meet to discuss your impending trip to Val Royeaux,” Cullen tells me brusquely as I make an attempt to smooth my hair back. The waves are tangled and my fingers get stuck. “I also wanted to ask you—would you be willing to give an archery demonstration to some of the new recruits? Cassandra said you’re one of the best shots she’s ever seen.”

            “Really?” I ask, feeling continued affection for the Seeker. “Well, she must’ve not met very many archers then.” We begin walking through the chantry to the room Josephine’s claimed.

            “Cassandra doesn’t offer praise very often, Herald.” Cullen informs me, and I make a mental note to start a tally of how many times people refer to me by that title. “I’ve been training the recruits with swords and shields, but I’m no archery expert. We don’t really have one here at all.”

            We stop outside of Josephine’s door. “If it's a demonstration you want, I’m not the one you should ask,” I tell him bluntly. “When I’m shooting things that are trying to kill me, it’s a lot easier. But if people are staring at me, and I’m trying to hit some target, I’ll miss.”

            Cullen raises an eyebrow. “You speak from experience?”

            I grimace. “My siblings convinced me to enter an archery competition once. One of my brothers—Thomas—had been training me. With people in the stands all staring, whispering, I managed to miss the target with every last arrow. There were _ten._ ”

            Cullen cringes a little bit on my behalf. Why am I telling him this embarrassing story? Maker, I usually ramble about other things. My mind gives me no alternatives to go on about, so I continue.

            “Thomas never let me live it down. He teased me so much over the next week, I decided to get revenge. I caught as many crickets as I could, then went into his room and put them on his pillow. He _hates_ bugs. The servants could hear him screaming bloody murder from the kitchens.” I actually miss him now.

“You would get along well with my sister,” Cullen laughs quietly, and I grin. His voice is so warm, but his laugh (or maybe it’s more of a soft chuckle), sounds even warmer-- soft and pretty, too.

            “What, did she get you back for teasing her too?” I ask with a smirk.

            “Not me. But I have another sister and brother who liked to pull pranks, and Mia was excellent at finding ways to either thwart them, or get her revenge.” Cullen tells me. He's wearing a small smile, the right side of lips pulled up more than the left. 

            “Where are your siblings now?” I lean against the wall next to Josephine’s door.

            Cullen sighs. “I’m not entirely sure where my brother is, though my sisters should still be in Ferelden. I’ve been terrible about keeping up correspondences.” He rubs the back of his neck again. “I know my sister is probably furious with me for not writing to her-- and I’ve been meaning to. I just… haven’t gotten around to it.”

            “You should write to her soon. I sent a letter home the first moment I could here, and even then I got a scathing reply from my mother telling me I’d waited too long to contact her.” I straighten, rolling my shoulders back. Whatever position I'd fallen asleep in before left my muscles aching.

            Cullen nods slowly. He seems much more relaxed than he was when he first woke me up. “I suppose I should go try to find someone else to help with archery training.”

            “Unless you want the soldiers to think I’m a complete imbecile, yes.” I tell him. “And if _do_ want that, you might find crickets on your bed tonight.”

            He laughs again. “Thankfully, I’ve never been scared of bugs.”

            “Well, I’ll have to think on other things I can do on your bed, then.” I say. My eyes widen. I didn’t just say that. Maker, I didn’t mean it that way. Of all the ways it could’ve come out-

“Uh,” Cullen’s turning red as he clears his throat.

Shit. That was unintentional innuendo, wasn’t it? It definitely sounded like it. “I meant… Not doing things on your bed. Things to _put on_ your bed. Like... mice. Do you like mice?” I want to disappear. I can’t look at him....

Before he gets a chance to answer, if he was even going to, I blurt, “I’ll see you later, Commander Cullen,” before throwing the door open and closing it behind me quickly.

My face is burning. This is worse than the time I accidentally fell and ended up with my face an inch away from Lord Reese’s crotch at mother’s garden party.

            Josephine’s sitting at her desk with her hands folded neatly, a sly smile playing on her lips.

_Please, Andraste, I will stop swearing about your decrepit bosom if Josephine didn’t hear what I said._

“I take it you and the commander had a good talk?”

            Andraste’s saggy tits and screw it all. Even if Andraste shows up with the Maker Himself and enough ale for me to forget this whole day, I will still flat out refuse to be her herald now. “Please at least pretend that you didn’t hear that, Josephine.” Is it possible to die of humiliation?

            She does a poor job of stifling a giggle. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

            I bury my head in my hands. “Can you find a nice hole for me to crawl into?” I mumble between my fingers. “Scratch that. It doesn’t have to be nice. Any hole will do.”

            “It was not so terrible,” Josephine sounds amused. “I may not have seen him, but I do believe you made Cullen blush. Now, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss your family.”


	4. Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Val Royeaux.

“Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak with-” Cassandra tries to say. Thankfully, the crowd is hardly paying attention to us anymore, instead talking amongst themselves; a few are running to the chantry cleric the Lord Seeker’s man had clocked over the head.

            “You will not address me,” Lord Seeker Lucius doesn’t even turn her way as he steps down from the platform. Cassandra looks more confused than hurt. I glance at Solas, who’s watching the Lord Seeker with an almost nonchalant expression. Does  _anything_ phase him?

            “Lord Seeker?” Cassandra asks. 

            “Creating a heretical movement? Raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet? You should be ashamed.” The Seeker looks out at the crowd, which becomes a little quieter again. “You should all be ashamed.”

            I glare at him. I'm already irked that he was rude to Cassandra-- no one insults my favorite sword-wielding, enemy-skewering, always-glaring Seeker. “I never said that I-”

            He cuts me off. “The Templars failed no one when they left the chantry to purge the mages. You are the ones who have failed. Who, you’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear.” He sounds so damn full of himself.

            I’m grinding my teeth together. “You-”

            Yet again, he ignores that I was trying to say something. “If you came to appeal to the chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine.”_

            Temper? Snapped. “You arrogant, egotistical moron!” I hiss.

            “I do not care for your opinions, you have nothing. No influence, no power, and certainly no holy purpose.”

            “Well, at least I don’t have my head up my ass.” I retort. Cassandra is hovering in my peripheral vision, probably trying to decide if she should shut me up or not. I, however, want to give this bastard a piece of my mind. Varric just snorts.

            “But Lord Seeker, what if she really was sent by the Maker?” A Templar asks hesitantly. Does no one ever listen to me when I say that I’m just a very boring Fiona Trevelyan whose hand glows? There’s no Andraste involved. Not even a little bit of her holiness. Then again, maybe I've insulted her chest too many times so she's ignoring me. I would deserve that.  _  
_

           Refocusing my attention, I’m about to tell the Lord Seeker that I’m no herald when the man who hit the cleric says, “You are called to a higher purpose.” Do all these people have a God-complex? “Do not question.”

            Lord Seeker Lucius puts on his smarmy expression again as he tells the crowd, “ _I_ will make the Templar order a power that stands alone against the void. We deserve recognition. Independence. You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing.”

            That’s it. “You’re really going to bash on the Inquisition?” I ask incredulously. “Tell me, what have you been doing since the sky was torn open? Have you been assisting refugees? Helping close the rifts? Telling your rogue Templars in the Hinterlands to stop murdering everyone on sight?”

            He opens his mouth, but I get a rush of satisfaction from pushing on. “No. All I’ve seen you do is punch chantry clerics and pontificate about how deserving you are. I won’t deny that I personally haven’t shown you anything, but don’t you _dare_ imply the Inquisition hasn’t been trying to fix the things you’ve ignored. You refuse to speak to Seeker Cassandra, yet I assure you she she’s done more for Thedas in the last few weeks than you could do in a lifetime with your pathetic attitude.” Suck it, Lord Seeker. “Nug-humper,” I add under my breath.

            “Fiona,” Cassandra warns me in a low voice.

            And then I see that the Lord Seeker’s hand is on his sword. Part of me really doesn’t care. He could try to run me through, but I’m fast, and it would give me an excuse to punch him in the face. I’d really, _really_ like to punch him in the face, and I'm not a particularly violent person.

            I take a deep breath. “If any of the Templars decide they want to do more than hunt glory while we’re all in danger, feel free to join the Inquisition to address the real problem—the breach.”

            The Lord Seeker’s hand falls by his side, though his eyes clearly say that he’d lie to kill me. “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march.” The Templars fall in step behind him.

            “Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Varric mutters to me.

            “That pig-headed, weasel-faced, maggot-pie should just… just… Ugh!” I fume, barely able to form words, resorting to stringing random insults together. “I can’t possibly describe how irritating and obnoxious that man is!”

Cassandra sidles up to face me. “Well, that encounter was… less than diplomatic,” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry at the very least. We both know he deserved it.

Varric looks up at me with a grin. “But entertaining. You’re never boring, I’ll give you that.”

I can currently feel many pairs of eyes on me, burning holes in my back. “People are staring, aren’t they?” I realize. I scratch the back of my head uncomfortably.

            “You’re worried about them staring _now_? Bright Eyes, you had everyone gawking at you when you called the Seeker an arrogant moron.” Varric laughs.

            I wince. “Shit.” I peek back over my shoulder and see the crowd dissipate as they realize they’ll get no further antics from me. I let out a sigh of relief.

            Cassandra frowns as the last Templar disappears from sight. “That was not at all what I expected. Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?”

            “You mean he wasn’t that bad when you knew him?” I ask.

            “He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.” Cassandra says, her eyebrows pulling together with confusion.

            My head is starting to pound again. The third headache in the last two days. “He seemed very given to ambition today. ‘ _I will make the Templars powerful. Bow down to me and tell me how wonderful I am.’_ ” I deepen my voice in a poor imitation, attempting to mimic his disapproving expression.

            “I don’t know how to explain it,” Cassandra rubs her temple with a gauntleted hand, which can’t be comfortable.

            I see the chantry cleric still on the platform, doubled over. How hard had she been hit? “I’ll go talk to the cleric before we leave,” I sigh. Cassandra looks at me, obviously concerned I’m going to screw it up. “She’s already yelled at me and told me I was a heretic, so I don’t have to worry about saying something wrong _now_. I suppose that’s the bright side of knowing someone already hates your guts.” I shift the bow on my shoulder to a more comfortable position.

            “I think the Seeker’s more concerned that you’re going to tell the cleric she has her head up her ass,” Varric tells me with a smirk. “Oh, you haven’t called her a nug-humper yet either.”

            “Varric,” Cassandra snaps.

            I groan. “I lost my temper, alright? And while he definitely deserved all of those things to be said about him, I shouldn’t have voiced it as a representative of the Inquisition.” I wish my head would stop hurting. “I’m sorry.”

            There’s a stunned silence. Are apologies really so rare? “I don’t think the Lord Seeker would have negotiated with us at any rate,” Solas quips. He’s leaning on his staff, watching the conversation with a hint of amusement. “Though people will surely be talking for days about the Herald.”

            “Just what I wanted,” my voice is thick with sarcasm. “I’ll be right back after I speak with the cleric. I’ll do my best not to call her any names.”

            “If you think of anymore insults for the Lord Seeker, let me know. You get pretty creative.” Varric calls to me as I make my way toward the platform.

            "If I try, I'm sure I can talk like a lady. I just need to- Maker's Balls!" An arrow whizzes past me and skitters on the stone. I panic for a moment, thinking we’re under attack, before I see there’s a letter tied around the arrow.

            “Andraste help us,” Cassandra mutters somewhere behind me.

            “I think asking Josephine to give her some lessons might be the more practical approach,” Varric answers.

            “Your faith in me is underwhelming,” I grumble, untying the letter.

            Varric chuckles. “I have faith in you, Bright Eyes, but not in your silver tongue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene always annoyed me so much, because my Inquisitor would definitely not have tolerated the complete sassery from the Lord Seeker. So this was gratifying to write, hehe. Blackwall coming soon!


	5. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven.

            There’s banging somewhere. I try to say ‘shut up’ and ‘go away’ at the same time, but all I manage is an unintelligible groan.

            “Fiona, I know you’re in there!”

            “No, I’m not!” I shout irritably, pulling a pillow over my head. If only cabins at Haven had thicker walls that kept out obnoxious Seekers.

            “I will kick this door down,” Cassandra’s muffled voice warns, and I know she’s not lying.

            Rolling out of bed, the blanket tangles around my ankles and I flop on the wooden floor, cocooned and squirming. “Damn it,” I struggle to my feet and stumble to the door before Cassandra can obliterate it.

            I open it to see the Seeker, short hair perfectly in place, armor on neatly, and eyes wide open. “What?” I demand, feeling worse than something the cat dragged in.

            “It’s dawn. We need to report to the chantry to speak with the others.” Cassandra says, seeming amused by my bedraggled state.

            I run my fingers through my tangled hair, bronze strands no doubt sticking up in all directions. “It was almost dawn when we got back,” I complain, eyes still bleary and voice thick with sleep.

            Cassandra sighs as if I’m trying her patience. Maybe I am, but I don’t really care at the moment. “Shall I carry you to the chantry?”

            “Yes, please.” I shoot back. She gives me a particularly annoyed look. “Fine.” I grab my cloak from where I tossed it over the lone chair in the cabin. I’d been too tired last night to change, so I’d fallen asleep in my leather scouting armor. I may appear disheveled now, but at least I’m not being dragged out of the cabin in a night shift.

            We head out into the biting morning air. It really is only sunrise, with the sky a nice shade of pink, fading into blue. Haven is full of soft, sleepy sounds, soldiers stumbling around tiredly, and the tavern quiet. It’s beautiful, in a way.

            I bloody hate it. Because I should be sleeping. I try to stare a hole in the back of Cassandra’s head.

            It was odd, though- when we finally returned from Orlais last night, it felt a little bit like coming home. Entering the chantry, I see Leliana and Cullen standing together. Cullen’s face is drawn, too pale. I wonder for a moment if he’s sick, but Cassandra says brusquely, “We’re here to report in. Where is Josephine?”

            “In the war room, sorting through letters,” Leliana answers, and they fall in step with us. “We received a flood of them after the Herald made her appearance in Val Royeaux.”

            “Ters’boutme?” I ask, blinking tiredly at the Spymaster. Leliana stares, and I realize I’d merely mumbled at her.

            “She’s not a morning person,” Cassandra explains.

            I ignore her, and restate as clearly as I can, “Letters about me?”

            Leliana nods, struggling to hide a smile. “There was quite a response.”

            I cringe. “They’ve added blasphemy to heresy now, no doubt. I’m sorry, Leliana. I got… a little frustrated.”

            “A little?” Cassandra’s voice is incredulous. “I’m only grateful you didn’t call the Lord Seeker a nug-humper any louder.”

           Cullen snorts. “Now _that_ I didn’t read from the spy reports,” he says, and my face heats up.

            “The response is actually in your favor,” Leliana tells me. “The Lord Seeker isn’t exactly popular after he left Val Royeaux with the Templars, and you seem to have gained support from the common folk in Orlais.”

            I feel my blush fading. “I gained support after I denied being the Herald of Andraste and swore at Lord Seeker Lucius?” I turn to Cassandra. “Looks like I won’t be needing lessons from Josephine after all.”

            “That remains to be seen.” Cassandra retorts.

            Leliana pushes open the door to the war room, and Josephine looks up from a stack of scrolls. “I heard you returned last night. It is good to see you back safely.”

            “We actually returned this morning,” I correct, throwing a tired glare at the resident Seeker.

            Josephine raises her eyebrows at us and clears her throat. “An elf named Sera came to the Inquisition a few days ago. She said you spoke with her in Orlais. She also brought me some, hm, _interesting_ intelligence. And I received word just last night that Lady Vivienne will be arriving in a few days time. Good work, my lady.”

            The memory of going to that damn party makes me wince. I’d tripped over words, and Lady Vivienne had ultimately recruited herself. “I’d hardly call it good work. I rambled at Lady Vivienne until she just flat old told me she wanted to help the Inquisition. I think you should keep me away from parties, Josephine.”

            “I had to drag Fiona all the way there,” Cassandra comments, reinforcing my case. She leans over the war table, expression turning serious. “We have much to discuss. I would report on our encounter with the Lord Seeker at Val Royeaux, but I’m not sure I fully understand his actions.”

            “It’s a shame the Templars have abandoned their senses as well as the capital.” Cullen crosses his arms as he frowns.

            “Grand Enchanter Fiona extended an invitation to Redcliffe,” I add, rubbing my eyes. I’m staying awake by sheer force of will at this point.

            “At the very least, we have the opening we need to approach the Templars and mages.” Josephine arranges her mass of papers, and I hide a yawn with my hands.

            “I wouldn’t approach the Lord Seeker with a ten foot pole. Not after what he said about the Inquisition.” I mumble. He’d been beyond rude to Cassandra, too. That’s enough to piss me off.

            Cassandra nods gravely. “Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.”

            “True.” Leilana tells us, looking intently at the war table. “He has taken the Order somewhere, but to do what? My reports have been… very odd.”

            “We must look into it. I’m certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker.” Cullen sounds concerned, and I know it must be because of his ties to the Templars. It must be hard for him to be here, not knowing why the Order suddenly has gone off glory hunting.

            “Or, Lady Trevelyan could simply go to meet the mages in Redcliffe instead.” Josephine suggests, the letters now in neat little piles around her. 

            Cullen’s frown deepens. “You think the mage rebellion is more united? It could be ten times worse!”

            No one answers, and I realize they’re all looking at me again. Why do they always look at me?

            I scratch the back of my head. “Uh, mages and Templars. Yes.” Why can’t they just make their own damn decisions? It’s not like I have any better idea of what’s going on. “Maybe you all could, you know, talk it out and make a decision?”

            “I agree,” Cassandra says, and I exhale in relief. Thank the Maker for eternally angry Seekers who drag exhausted archers out of bed first thing in the morning. And I don’t mean that sarcastically, Maker—really.

            They argue some more, and I’m just struggling to keep my eyes open. I should start bringing material for note-taking with me.

            “Right, so… before we approach either the mages or Templars, I’ll investigate this Warden Blackwall and go to the Storm Coast to see about the mercenary group, yeah?” I attempt to summarize when they stop bickering.

            Josephine scribbles something down while Leliana nods. “We’ll continue doing what we can to gain the influence we need from here,” Cullen tells me.

“Right.” I rub my eyes again. “I’ll try not to accuse anyone of humping nugs while I’m away, but I make no promises.”

I walk out of the war room with soft laughter behind me, though Cassandra’s sighing as she keeps pace with me.

“I suppose this means that we’re leaving as soon as possible?” I ask her. The idea makes me want to cry. That nice, potentially flea infested bed, all lonely while I’m off stomping through the Hinterlands or embarrassing myself at parties.

“We can linger for a day, and leave tomorrow morning.” Cassandra tells me.

“Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?” I ask, the Seeker immediately becoming my hero.

            Cassandra shakes her head at me. “I think you truly are sleep deprived.”

            “That’s true, too,” I answer before making a beeline for my cabin. I form a mental checklist as I crawl under the blanket. Get Warden Blackwall, visit the Storm Coast, talk to the mages or Templars, close the giant hole in the sky, and then sleep for the next twenty years.

            I curl up almost happily. The end is in sight.


	6. Compliments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hinterlands, Camp.

            “-and then the sky opens up, blazing green. A woman, shining so brightly reaches out to her-”

            “Varric Tethras, were you even there when I fell out of the breach?” I chastise, Solas and I walking close enough to the fire to hear the dwarf.

            “Did I need to be, Bright Eyes?” Varric asks with a wink as I deposit the mountain of elfroot Solas and I collected into a satchel. Warden Blackwall sits across from Varric, listening to the tale. He’s got a bandage wrapped around his arm, but blood is already seeping through.

Blackwall doesn’t seem too pale, which is a good sign. Then again, I’m not sure that I could see much of his face underneath that beard.

            “Let’s get that cut cleaned,” I say, rubbing some of the elfroot between my fingers to let the oils out.

            Cassandra, who’s sharpening her sword sitting half-in, half-out of the tent, goes to get a fresh bandage. “We should look for better armor once we return to Skyhold,” she tells Blackwall.

            “It’s always served me well before. I was just too slow with the bastards today,” Blackwall answers gruffly as I squat next to him and unwrap the bandage with my free hand.

            The Warden had been traveling with us for several days now, helping us find some weird artifact for Solas, clearing out Templars and mages for refugees, and fighting off bandits. It’d been rogue Templars today that had overwhelmed us and sliced open Blackwall’s arm.

            I make a face at the cut – blood is caked on his skin, the sleeve of his undershirt cut away. “Damn, Blackwall, this is worse than I thought.”

            “Very reassuring,” he tells me.

            “You’ve been saying it was ‘just fine’ for hours now! If it was me, I’d be sniveling about it,” I retort. “Can you still move your fingers alright? Still have feeling down your arm?”

            Blackwall’s lips quirk up. “I’ve had worse, my lady.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not bad now.” I squint at the wound. “This will sting a bit,” I warn before pressing the elfroot on the cut.

            The Warden’s muscles tense, but he doesn’t complain.

            Varric’s watching us curiously. “Not even a curse? Damn, Hero, does being a Warden give you a high pain tolerance too?”

            Blackwall hesitates. “No, but getting plenty of injuries like this before helps.”

“Mm,” Varric mumbles back, shaking his head. He’s sitting across the fire, either cleaning Bianca or cuddling it. The dwarf’s attachment to his crossbow is the purest form of love I’ve ever seen. If I ever meet someone I care about as much as Varric cares about his crossbow, I’ll marry that person on the spot.

Cassandra hands me a clean bandage, and I wrap it around Blackwall’s arm. “If you bleed through this, don’t tell me you’re fine, or that you’ve had worse. Just let me know and I’ll put more elfroot on and change it out.” I lecture. Cassandra vanishes inside our tent now, and I notice that Solas has wandered off as well. He’s probably gone to do his strange fade stuff.

Blackwall’s eyes seem slightly less focused now. “I’ll be-”

            “If you say ‘fine’ one more time…” I warn, though I have nothing to threaten with, so I trail off unconvincingly.

            “You’ll do something to make me not ‘fine’, my lady?” Blackwall asks in his rumbling voice. “That might be counterproductive.”

            “Would you admit to being less than fine then?”

            “Probably not.”

            “If someone impaled you with a spear, would you-”

            “I’d be fine. Dead, but fine.”

            I do my best to glare at him, but end up snorting loudly instead. “You know, I met plenty of people while I traveled around Ostwick’s forests who tended to be a little… Well, you’re oddly charming for a man I found wandering in the forest. I’ll just say that,” I finish cheekily. Bantering with him has become light and easy over the past few days when he isn't being so damn serious.

            “I’ve always thought myself more odd than charming, but I’ll take a compliment from a lady. They’re hard to come by these days.” Blackwall answers, blue eyes twinkling almost mischievously.

            “Compliments or ladies?” I ask, tying off the bandage neatly.

            Blackwall chuckles. “Both. So… is there something large and heavy you need moved?”

            “Not with this arm,” I tap lightly on his shoulder. “But does this mean I can compliment you next time I want to rearrange the furniture in my cabin?” I bat my eyelashes as preposterously as I can, and pitch my voice up. “ _Warden Blackwall, you have the most magnificent beard I’ve ever seen. Now come move the table to this wall.”_

Blackwall really laughs now, and I grin at him in response. “I have to say, my lady, you are unlike any woman I've ever met,” Blackwall tells me.

            I can’t hide my grin, but I feel red creep up my neck. “I suppose the majority of the female population doesn’t have green glowing marks on their hands and a tendency to trip over their own boots,” I answer quickly.

            “You do trip a lot more than someone trained as a rogue should,” Varric’s voice cuts through my embarrassment, and I realize I’d completely forgotten he was still present. I’d been flirting— _flirting_ —with Blackwall, and Varric had been listening. Shit. I’m going to be teased for days.

            If I wasn’t bright red before, I certainly am now. “The higher up from the ground you are, the harder it is to watch where you’re stepping,” I counter, trying to scrabble for any shreds of dignity left. Maker, what possessed me to attempt to talk up Warden Blackwall?

            “That was a low blow, Bright Eyes,” Varric comments. “Fortunately, it was still too high to hit me.” He throws a wink my way.

            Still blushing furiously, I scramble to my feet. I’d called his beard magnificent. I don’t even like facial hair! “Good night,” I blurt, tearing open the tent flap and nearly stepping on Cassandra.

            Unfortunately, she’s still awake. “Compliments or ladies?” She quips dryly, though thankfully quietly.

            “You’re cruel,” I whisper, and Cassandra doesn’t bother answering. I wish I'd stepped on her earlier.

            I settle down in my bedroll, and I can faintly hear Blackwall and Varric murmuring to each other.

            “She’s not what most people expect when they hear ‘Herald of Andraste’, but I think she’s what the Inquisition needs,” Varric says quietly. “She may complain and drag her feet when Cassandra wakes her up early in the morning or when our diplomat, Ruffles, makes her talk to people she doesn’t know. But she’s got her heart in the right place. And that’s what matters with all this weird shit going on. She’s a damn good shot, too.”

            Blackwall answers, but I can’t make out any words.

            I feel a small, contented smile creep on my face as I drift off to sleep.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall's here!! I re-wrote this chapter so many times- I was having a hard time writing Blackwall. If you have any suggestions on how to improve his voice/characterization, please let me know! :)


	7. Snowballs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven.

Blackwall and I trudge back through the snow, and I’m shivering, inclined to using descriptive language to describe just how cold it is. “I d-don’t think any t-training is worth th-this,” my teeth chatter and I attempt to give Blackwall a look that expresses how Maker-forsaken freezing I am.

“If it will keep you from getting killed, it was worth it.” Blackwall answers, apparently toasty warm. Probably his stupid beard keeping all of his body heat trapped.

I wish I could grow a beard.

            “They didn’t g-get that close,” I sniff as disdainfully as I can.

            “If Solas hadn’t frozen him, you would’ve been dismembered.” Blackwall says, somewhere between stern and exasperated.

            Currently, I feel pity for the man who was turned into an icicle right before he died. Mainly because I'm making the transformation into an icicle myself. I make a face at Blackwall and pray it won’t get stuck like that. “I w-was about to r-roll away, thank you v-very much.”

            “Of course, my lady. But it would’ve been your head rolling away without the rest of you.” Definitely on the side of exasperation now.

            We pass by Cullen and the recruits, who look just as miserable as I feel. It’s the youngest group, sparring as Cullen barks, “Lunge, don’t offer. You have a sword, Thanos, not a flower!”

            “Yes, Commander!” Matthew Thanos shouts, his nose running and cheeks red with the cold.

            “I’d take a f-flower from you any d-day, Matt,” I say in a low voice to him as Blackwall and I pass. The recruit throws me an appreciative look. I’d met him in the tavern yesterday, the boy tentative at first approaching the so-called Herald of Andraste. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize I was just as _conventionally_ odd as everyone else in the tavern, other than the jagged, sometimes green, scar on my hand. I shiver, but the tavern's in sight now and I waddle through the snow to get to warmth.

The tavern is crowded; with everyone other than Cullen’s miserable recruits inside, trying to stay out of the cold. The door to the tavern closes behind me, I can feel myself being to thaw.

            Blackwall and I find Sera with the Iron Bull in the corner, Bull’s massive frame perched between two tiny tavern chairs. The Chargers had arrived at Haven a week ago, but I still haven't entirely gotten used to seeing the Iron Bull around. The gigantic Qunari with the easy smile and bulging muscles seemed unreal still.

            “Andraste’s ass, you look terrible!” Sera tells me as Blackwall and I approach, and I move my eyes from Bull to her. She has a tankard the size of her head in front of her.

            “Blame him,” I jerk my thumb at Blackwall.

            Bull grins. “Did the training go well, Boss?”

            “Blackwall knocked me over about fifty times and I could very well be the worst dagger-wielder in all of Thedas,” I grumble.

            The Warden chuckles. “She didn’t do too badly. Tried to hold the dagger like spoon, but she got the hang of it eventually.”

            Bull stands up, his horns nearly brushing the ceiling, and pats me on the shoulder. I attempt to hide a wince, but my bruises definitely have bruises now. “Take my seats, Boss. You look like you need a drink.”

            “The last thing I need is a drink,” I answer honestly. “Anything more than a sip will have me throwing up all over Haven.”

            “You’re that much of a lightweight?” Bull asks as Blackwall and I sit down across from Sera, whose downing the last drops from her tankard.

            I nod at Bull. “My brothers tried taking me drinking for the first time a few years ago. It was also the last time.”

            Bull laughs while shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Boss. You're missing out on a crucial part of life. You still on for Wicked Grace tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it," I answer with a wink. Bull nods and leaves the tavern. Suddenly there’s so much free, open space.

            “Maker's Balls, I forget how big he is sometimes,” Blackwall mutters, voicing my thoughts.

            “Glad to see you and Bull getting along,” I tell Sera as I blow on my fingers, trying to get feeling back into them. 

“Well enough. He makes me wonder about… things. I mean, can you imagine what their women look life? Woof.” Sera wiggles her eyebrows at me.

            “You could always ask Bull if he has any friends he could introduce you to,” I suggest.

            “It’s a dream, innit? Anyway, if you want to avoid getting dead, you should’ve come to me. There are mixtures ‘n stuff you can use instead of trying to use your bow _and_ a dagger.”

            I turn to Blackwall. “So I could’ve avoided freezing my ass off for the last few hours?”

            Blackwall makes a disapproving noise. “Daggers are more reliable. I’ve seen archers throw flasks around when enemies get too close. Sometimes they set themselves on fire.”

            “Only the idiots do.” Sera counters.

            “I’d like to just stick to shooting people. I’d probably be the idiot who drops a flask on my own feet. And daggers… well, Cassandra’s the one who enjoys being all… stabbity.”

            “You have a way with words, my lady,” Blackwall sighs. “All I wish is for you to have a way to defend yourself should an attacker close in.”

            It _had_ been a terrifying moment. A sword raised, me with no arrow ready to fire, staring into the eyes of my would-be murderer. But Solas cast a spell of ice that rooted my attacker to the spot, and I'd put an arrow through his eye. I’d never killed a person before I joined the Inquisition. But now, I’d lost count of how many bandits, how many mages, how many Templars, I’d shot. I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

“My lady?” Blackwall asks quietly. His eyes are concerned, voice gentle.

I blink, trying to push away the morbid thoughts. I manage to smile at him. “Sorry. Just a bit tired.”

“Aw, really, Fee?” Sera asks, setting down her tankard loudly. “I was hoping we could, you know, do some fun stuff.”

“Fun stuff? What do you have in mind?” I want a distraction, and Sera is particularly good at coming up with ridiculous things to do. 

“You’ll see. Come on.” Sera jumps up from her chair, and I look at Blackwall as an inquiry.

            Blackwall shakes his head. “I could use an ale. Not all of us have problems holding our alcohol.”

            I wrinkle my nose at him. “I’ll drink with you some time, if you’d like. You might want to wear your worst shoes.”

            “Heh. I’ll, uh, not take you up on that offer.” He answers, and Sera grabs my arm and tows me out of the tavern. Into the cold again- joy of joys.

            The snow is piled up to just under my knees, and Sera and I have to slog through it. “Where exactly are we going?” I ask, trying to follow her. The sun is starting to set behind patches of clouds, orange painted across the sky. “I just thawed out, so-”

“Look over there for a moment, will you?” Sera suddenly stops and points toward the chantry. With a sigh, I obey.

“What exactly am I supposed to be seeing?” I ask, squinting and wondering if someone’s about to jump down from the chantry roof without his pants on.

“Not this!”

Cold hits my neck and I squawk.

            Sera cackles gleefully, and I turn on her, leaning down to gather snow unceremoniously in my hands.

            Another snowball pelts me, this time on the arm. I chuck my own oddly misshapen weapon at Sera, and it splatters across her back.

            “Is that the best you can do?” She's making a massive snowball now. I take off, bolting past the chantry, a laugh bubbling past my lips. “You can’t run forever!” Sera taunts, but I’m already out past the main walls. I glance over my shoulder, and see her not far behind me.

            I try to weave around the recruits who seem to be storing their equipment, finishing for the day. I hurriedly mash snow into a lumpy sphere.

            “How’s your aim, _Herald?_ ” Sera calls, and I turn and throw.

            It’s not Sera that I hit.

            My hands fly to my mouth as snow drips down the side of Cullen’s cheek, his eyes widened in shock. I just threw a snowball at the Commander of the Inquisition in front of all of the younger recruits. Recruits who should probably not see him caught by surprise. “Commander Cullen! I’m so sorry, I-”

            “She just got your Commander!” Sera shouts. “Are you just gonna stand with your mouths open, or are you going to protect him?”

            Matthew shouts, “No, ser!”

            Sera loses it, probably because it’s the first time she’s ever been called ‘ser’ in her life. “Then get on it, you saps! I’m with the glowy lady.”

            Cullen’s looking at Sera like she’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen, a gloved hand rubbing at his cheek. Then, there’s a voice that calls, “Avenge the Commander!”

            Sound erupts, the recruits whooping. It’s a blur of white, snowballs flung at me as I squeal and Sera does a poor job of fending off my attackers. There’s no tactics, no thinking about getting hurt, no swords charging at me, no death count. It’s giggling, cheeks flushed in the cold, running through Haven. The recruits are shouting gleefully, wariness erased from their faces despite what must’ve been a long day of training.

            It’s not long before Sera and I are completely overwhelmed, and I’m laughing so hard tears stream down my face, leaving me gasping for breath. I fall in the snow, the recruits now turning on each other, giving me a moment to breathe.

           A hand appears, and I look up to see the very amused face of Commander Cullen. I slip my fingers into his grasp, and he all but pulls me to my feet. “You have a way with the recruits.”

            I grin at him, cold stinging my cheeks. “I think _they_ have a way with _me._ Did you see how many times I got hit?”

            Cullen’s lips quirk up, his scar stretching. “Cassandra sent a message while you were being, ah, overwhelmed. She wants to meet with us in the chantry.” A snowball sails past us, and Cullen’s expression turns to bemusement. “Maker’s Breath,” he mutters.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten into a snow fight before?” I tease as we start walking through the snowball battlefield toward the chantry. I have to duck to avoid getting pelted in the face.

            “What? No, of course I have. Just… not in a long time.” Cullen’s eyebrows pull together, probably trying to remember.

            “Do you ever take a break and do something fun, Cullen?” I ask him. It hits me that I’ve dropped his title of ‘Commander’, and wonder if I shouldn’t have. He doesn’t seem to even notice. We pass through the outer walls of Haven.

            “Of course,” Cullen says again, frowning. “I...”

            I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ve never even seen you in the tavern. Do you eat dinner hunched over reports in the war room?” When he doesn’t answer, the lack of eye contact does. “Cullen! Do you even sleep?” I suddenly become worried, wondering if this is the reason he always looks overly pale, rubbing at his temples.

            “I do sleep!” Cullen answers quickly.

“If you say so,” I relent, not convinced. There’s a shriek followed by laughter in the distance, and I shake my head. “They’re still at it. This is a full on snow war.”

Cullen chuckles. “That it is. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the effect you have on the Inquisition.”

            “And what effect is that?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s always a flurry of activity with you around. When you’re gone, it’s… quiet.”

            “Is this your way of telling me I’m too loud?” I snort, though my heart sinks a little bit.

            “No!” Cullen amends quickly. “No. After the Conclave, almost everyone here lost someone they knew personally. Either in the initial blast, killed by bandits, demons from the rifts, the mages and Templars… We lost a lot of good people.”

            I nod, my face falling. “Too many. It must’ve felt surreal.” One of my father’s advisors had accompanied me to the Conclave, but had died in the explosion. I hadn’t known the man very well, but it was still a shock to realize that he was just… gone. The weight of it all settles again.

            “For many, I think it did. Haven was in mourning. And then you started making people laugh again.” Cullen's mouth forms that slightly lopsided smile, and I feel a little lighter. “You give them hope.”

            I brush my hair away from my face with numbed fingers. “I don’t understand how. I’m not… I suppose the mark is something worth put hoping it.”

            Cullen gives me a strange look, one that I’m not sure how to read. “It’s not just the mark. You... It's you.”

            And then a snowball splatters on the back of my head, and I whirl around to see Sera cackling. “That was my last one. Saved it just for you, Fee. Special one, so be happy about it!”

            “I hope you never get to see a Qunari woman in your entire life!” I shout as she darts away again, shivering as the snow drips down my neck.

            Cullen stares at me. “I’m not even going to ask,” he decides resolutely before pushing open the doors to the chantry. “Shall we?”


	8. Tevinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe Village.

            “Ooh, very mysterious,” Varric raises his eyebrows as I stuff Felix’s note into my pocket.

            I frown. “There’s no telling who or what will be waiting for us in that chantry.”

            “Only one way to find out.”

“I’d just like to get some answers at this point,” I grumble to Varric as we leave the Gull and Lantern. “I _hate_ being lied to. And unless Grand Enchanter Fiona has a long-lost twin wandering around Thedas, it was definitely her in Val Royeaux.”

            The air in Redcliffe village is humid from the lake, and while it feels somewhat refreshing, it’s also sticky, and I’m sure my hair has gained an inch of frizz. The recurring headache is back as well, and finding out that the rebel mages had willingly enslaved themselves to Tevinter was the icing on this terrible-day cake.

            “It’s possible the Grand Enchanter couldn’t tell the truth due to the deal with Tevinter,” Blackwall suggests quietly from behind me.

            “Right, the deal that we could nickname ‘worst idea of the century’.” I retort, pain pounding behind my eyes.

            Varric snorted. “I tried to think of a single worse thing she could have done, and I came up with nothing.”

            “They were afraid.” Solas says lightly. “Though slavery to Tevinter is not something they should have considered.”

            I sigh, rubbing my eyes as we pass more villagers on the way to the chantry. “If we go inside and someone tries to kill us, I’m going to scream.”

            “Hopefully you’ll shoot them first, Bright Eyes,” Varric puts in helpfully.

            “Simultaneous screaming and shooting.” I answer, fingers reaching to my bow as we walk up the steps to the chantry. There’s a twinge of pain past the dull throbbing in my hand, and green light glows as I look down to see the mark shining back at me. “Just what I need,” I complain.

            Blackwall draws his sword and kicks open the chantry door.

            Sure enough, there’s a massive rift, with two shades already attacking someone. A mage, by the look of his staff. I draw an arrow, but the mage kills the shades before I can let it fly.

            “Good, you’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?” The mage drawls.

            I nod, only to have a fresh wave of demons and wraiths pour out of the rift. I move around the edges of the fray, shooting at wraiths while trying to get close enough to the rift itself to disrupt it.

            The magic tugs at my hand when I’m close enough, and it’s a habit now to throw my hand up, letting the mark sizzle, white-hot pain shooting up my arm.

            This is not helping my headache.

            The rift explodes in a shower of green ash, which I’ve decided must contain fade guts and demon remains, and I cough as my eyes water.

            “Fascinating!” A voice whispers, and I turn to see the mage stepping toward me, brown eyes bright. “How does that work exactly?” I open my mouth to answer, but the mage continues, “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and- Boom! Rift closes.”

            “Sometimes I waggle my fingers instead of wiggle them,” I answer, tilting my pounding head to the side. “It really depends on the day. And today’s been rather shitty so far, so mind telling me if you’re planning on trying to kill me or something?”

            “Ah, no. I don’t have some dramatic ambush planned,” the mage grins, and his mustache lifts. I decide I dislike mustaches as much as Tevinter. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

            I relax slightly. “I’m Fee. Though, I’m guessing you already know that. Unless you’re not actually with Felix. In which case, disregard what I just said. And, uh, forget I said anything at all.” I wince a little at my words as they tumble out of my mouth.

            The mage, Dorian, laughs good-naturedly. “Yes, I’m the one who sent the note. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable—as I’m sure you can imagine.”

            As much as I don't want to deal with the Imperium, I’m not about to turn away help. Dorian explains the danger, describing that Alexius distorted time in order to reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition.

            “So he used magic to arrive here right after Divine Justinia died,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose and trying to ignore the way my head feels like it’s about to explode and shower everyone in brain bits.

            “You catch on quickly,” Dorian leans against his staff casually.

            “That is fascinating if true… and almost certainly dangerous.” Solas says with narrowed eyes.  

             Dorian straightens. “That rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon, there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable. It’s unraveling the world.”

            I blink a few times. “So… Alexius is using magic to distort the rifts, tear apart time, and ultimately destroy the world. Why would anyone be stupid enough to do that?”

            “I don’t understand it either. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?” Dorian twists the end of his mustache around his finger.

            “He didn't do it for them.” Felix approaches, looking not much better than he did before when he collapsed and slipped me Dorian’s note.

            “Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?” Dorian asks, turning toward the Magister’s son.

            “No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.” Felix looks at me. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘venatori’. And I can tell you one thing. Whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

            “Well, shit.” I rub my temples. “Why are you telling me this if Alexius is your father? Not that I’m ungrateful! I’d just like to understand.” I have to grit my teeth to try to counter what’s got to be the worst headache I’ve ever had.

            “For the same reason Dorian is working against my father. I love my father, and I love my country. But this… cults, time magic… what he’s doing is madness. For his own sake, you have to stop him.” Felix says heavily.

            “It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s already a hole in the sky,” Dorian quips, but there’s weight behind his words as well.

            “And I’m guessing it’s not me they care about, but this mark. The ability to close rifts.” I drop my hands from my face to look at the jagged mark across my palm. “Do you think these ‘Venatori’ have something to do with the rifts? And maybe the breach itself?”

            Felix shakes his head. “If they do, they’re even worse than I thought.”

            “All right, we’ve assessed that the situation is… bad. 'Andraste's Ass, this is scary' bad. Do you have any idea of what we’re supposed to do now? You know, to keep time from crumbling around us?” I ask, looking hopefully at Solas, who usually seems to have a one-up on understanding things no one else can.

            Solas is wearing an expression of confusion and concern, not one that frequently appears on his face. And I know things are going downhill if Solas doesn’t know what weird magic stuff is going on.

            “You know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage.” Dorian says. “I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.” Dorian turns and takes a few steps before throwing over his shoulder, “And Felix? Try not to get yourself killed.”

            Felix raises a hand in farewell. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” he says, and the two men leave the chantry, Dorian disappearing in the back and Felix pushing open the main doors.

            I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Why can’t people ever just use magic to make nugs talk? Or maybe make people fly?”

            Solas sighs. “At the very least, I had hoped no one would try to interfere with time. The implications of this kind of magic do not paint the future kindly.”

            “We should go back to Haven and let Leliana know about this. She may be able to get some information on Alexius,” Blackwall says tiredly.

            The mark is unhelpfully pulsing in time with the pounding in my head. “Sounds like a plan,” I answer, though my voice sounds weak even to myself.

            Varric complains to Solas about Tevinter being weird enough without cults, and I silently agree. Blackwall steps closer to me, “Are you well, my lady?” He asks quietly.

            I nod. “I just need to sleep for a few days with someone holding Cassandra as hostage so she won’t wake me up.”

“I’d offer, but I wouldn’t want to face the lady Seeker’s wrath.” Blackwall answers, and his lips pull up under his beard. His eyes, however, are still concerned.

"You'd sooner face a dragon than Cassandra, wouldn't you?" I attempt a laugh, but probably end up grimacing.

            Solas looks back at us. “Blackwall would you go ahead with Varric to make sure Alexius has nothing waiting for us?” Solas asks, and the two nod before leaving the chantry.

            “If Alexius didn’t try to kill us today in the Gull and Lantern, I don't think we're in any immediate danger,” I tell Solas.

            “I am aware. You, however, have been trying to hide your pain for weeks now. I thought you would prefer not to have others around when we discussed it.” Solas says, his voice light.

            “Oh. Thank you.” I press the back of my hands against my eyes. “How did you know?"

"I studied the mark while you were still a prisoner, and learned the particular type of magic it emits. I can feel it now, very lightly. I can only imagine it must be much louder and more forceful for you."

"It just feels like a headache," I explain. A terrible headache like someone's hammering my skull, but a headache, nonetheless. 

            “May I see the mark?” Solas asks, and I present it to him. His fingers are light on my palm. “It was pulsing like this in Val Royeaux as well, was it not?”

            “Yes,” I answer, squinting at the jagged scar. There’s no green light shining from it now. It’s just a thin, black line across my clammy palm.

            Solas’ fingers are warm in comparison, and I realize I’m sweating despite how cold I feel. “Do you have these headaches frequently?” Solas asks, staring at the mark with a clinical eye.

            “Yes. It’s not always this bad, though,” I add quickly as Solas gently presses down on the mark. The throbbing dulls and I sigh in relief.

            “Better?”

            “A thousand times better. Thank you,” I smile at the elf, who returns it.

            “I can show you other techniques of handling the pain when we return to Haven,” Solas tells me as we head to the door. “I have to be careful with the magic I use on you, as I am unsure of how the mark may interfere.”

            “Well, whatever you did just now was a miracle in itself,” I answer as I watch my feet carefully down the uneven steps. “Though, speaking of magic again…”

            Solas looks at me curiously, and I give him the biggest grin I can manage, “ _Would_ it be possible to make nugs talk?”

           

 


	9. Almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven.

I’ve successfully managed to bite all my nails off, which is I habit I thought I’d broken. I inherited the unfortunate Trevelyan fingers, which means I have relatively large hands because of my height, yet stubby little fingers. So, vainly I like keeping my nails long to at least pretend I have the feminine, delicate hands of my mother and sister.

            But waiting is not something I’m particularly good at, and now my nails are bitten down to the quick.

            “Are you planning on coming down from there any time soon, my lady?”

            I look down from my perch to see Blackwall through the lower branches of the tree. “Maybe. That would depend on whether or not I can actually _get_ down,” I say.

            From the top of this tree, I can watch the comings and goings around Haven. And wait for word to be sent from Magister Alexius.

            Blackwall sighs. “Watching for a messenger isn’t going to make news come any faster.”

            I wrinkle my nose at him, but he probably can’t see it because of the branch obstructing my face. “I could just be enjoying the view.”

            “You could be, but you’re not.” Blackwall rumbles back.

            “When did you decide to become so perceptive?” I complain, only to hear him laugh in response. “Fine, I’m coming down. But if I trip on a branch and end up on my face, you’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it, my lady,” Blackwall answers, but I can practically _hear_ the smile on his face as I clamber down ungracefully.

            I brush my breeches off when I reach the snowy ground, a spot of sap now on my knee. “But, uh, as an off-hand question-”

            “Leliana hasn’t heard anything new.”

            I should be annoyed that the Warden seems to know what I’m thinking, but instead, the knots in my stomach tighten. “What is Magister Alexius waiting for? My head on a silver platter to just arrive at Redcliffe?”

            “No, he’s probably plotting something.” Blackwall tells me, voice serious.

            “Well, he could hurry up about it.” I frown. “I’d appreciate attempted murders to be more timely.”

            Blackwall gives me a look that’s concern mingled with something else. “Are you really in such a hurry to have Alexius attack you?”

            I scratch the back of my head. “Not really. It’s just…” My stomach twists again, and I curse Cassandra for making me eat breakfast this morning. I want to say, _It’s just that Alexius went after the mages to get to me because of the mark. If all those people become slaves, it’ll be my fault. Maybe if we’d gone to Redcliffe sooner, or maybe if I was more assertive with Alexius, I wouldn’t be stuck here waiting for word of the insane magister and the fate of the rebel mages. Maybe if someone else had the mark, they wouldn’t have been bumbling around Ferelden and Orlais like an idiot and could’ve actually helped the Inquisition instead of getting them into this mess._

            Instead, I shake my head and grab my bow from where I’d rested it against the tree trunk. “I’m worried about the mages.”

            “As soon as Leliana hears something, we can scrape a plan together to put an end to that bastard.” Blackwall tells me darkly.

            “I love it when you talk that way,” I tease, though one of the knots in my stomach unties itself. “Makes a girl blush to hear about killing magisters.” I try to push the panic that had risen to the surface back down again as I wink at Blackwall.

            “Oh? Is that so?” Blackwall’s voice is low and I feel like I actually _do_ blush a little bit. “This would be a good time to suggest more dagger training, then.”

            I glare at him. “You just want to knock me over in the snow until my teeth are chattering again.”

            Blackwall chuckles. “What I want is for you to be able to protect yourself in fights. Solas might not be able to help you next time.”

            “Last time you made me only use a dagger. But I’m not entirely defenseless with just my bow,” I say, a sly grin appearing on my face as I slip my bow off my shoulder. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve as well.”

            “Really?” Blackwall’s lips twitch like he’s challenging me.

            I nod, and take a few steps away from him. “Go on, come at me.”

            Blackwall raises his eyebrows, and unslings his shield. “I thought you didn’t want to be knocked over today.”

            “Haha.” I bounce on my toes. “Just try.”

            He rolls his shoulders back before running at me, and I get so much satisfaction from side-stepping lightly just as he’s about to ram into me with his shield. I jab my bow at his ankles, catching one of his feet between the lower limb and the string. It works like a charm to fight dirty sometimes.

            I’m grinning as he trips in the snow, and when he rolls over, I’m already straddling his hips, my hands hovering over his neck.

            Blackwall’s eyes are wide with surprise, and I giggle. “Still think I’m just a defenseless little archer? I _did_ have older brothers I wrestled with.” His dark hair is such a contrast with the snow under him, and I resist the bizarre impulse to reach out to it. It looks like it could be soft.

            “Wha-” Suddenly, I’m the one on my back, wrists pinned by my head by Blackwall’s hands. I gasp in shock as cold seeps through my armor and makes me shiver.

Blackwall says almost smugly, “Then you should know not to try to pin a heavier opponent like that.”

            “You caught me by surprise,” I answer, attempting to sound impetuous though I couldn’t help but to laugh again. It's worth it to see the flash of white teeth from Blackwall.

            That’s when I realize his mouth is very, _very_ close to mine. Within kissing distance.

            What?

            Maker, I just thought about kissing Blackwall. And Andraste, I think I actually want to. I could close my eyes and lean up. I could. I really want to.

            My heart’s pounding in my chest, and the smile slides of Blackwall’s face, his stormy blue eyes holding my own.

            He leans closer. So much closer. The heat radiating from his body only makes me breathe faster, my mind rushing in a blur of _kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

            Then Blackwall pulls himself off of me, a flash of something crossing his face for a moment as he stands and helps me to my feet. He looks… uncomfortable?

           Shit. My cheeks are burning, and I internally chastise myself. Stupid. Stupid. Flirting was _just_ flirting. Blackwall is older, more experienced, and probably has little time for silly girls who talk too much. And now I’ve made him feel uncomfortable with whatever breathless, idiotic, doe-eyed look I’d given him. Right.

            “Right.” I say out loud, deciding _not_ to look at Blackwall. I feel more than humiliated. “So next time I trip you, it’s best if I just knock you out cold right away instead of cackling about being able to trip the mighty Warden.”

            “Fee!” It’s Matt, and I’ve never been happier in my life to see the recruit hurrying through the snow toward me.

            I step toward him with a forced grin. “Did Thatcher cheat you at cards again?”

            “Well, he did last night.” Matt laughs, “But I was here to bring you to the War Room. Apparently, that Magister in Redcliffe sent word to our forward camp. Scout Harding just brought news to Lady Montilyet.”

            Air rushes out of my lungs as I look to Blackwall, my eyes wide. “It’s here!” I smack Matt on the arm as I take off at a run. “Thank you, Matt!” I shout over my shoulder, racing past the outer walls, past the cabins, up the stairs, and into the chantry.

            When I burst into the War Room, Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, and Cassandra are already inside. And from their expressions and tones, they’re arguing.

            Cassandra and Cullen are glaring at each other, and Josephine says loudly as I enter, “We should see what the Herald has to say, since she is the one Alexius is asking for by name.”

            “Alexius is asking for me?” I ask, letting the door close behind me as I join them at the table.

            “He’s invited you to negotiate with him. It’s an obvious trap.” Josephine says brusquely.

            “He is so complimentary in his letter that we are certain he wants to kill you,” Leliana puts in, sounding almost amused.

            “It’s just common courtesy to flatter the person you want to murder,” I answer, crossing my arms and tapping my fingers on my sleeve. “Oh, my, you’re just the most charming man I’ve ever met, Alexius. Here, have an arrow to the eye.”

            Cassandra makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat. “Fiona, this is serious.”

            “I’m being serious.” I answer with a sigh. “We have to go to Redcliffe.”

            Cullen turns to me, his eyebrows drawn together. “Tell me you aren’t actually considering this, Herald.”

            I purse my lips and look at him apologetically. “I’m not sure we have much of a choice, Cullen. We know the Grand Enchanter is in servitude now along with the other mages.”

            “Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden.” Cullen’s eyes are hard. “It has repelled thousands of assaults. If you go in there, you’ll die, and we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it.”

            “I…” It comes as a slap across the face. How can I forget? Cullen is the Commander, and I serve a purpose because of the mark on my hand. I’d almost forgotten, with the light banter, the laughter, that to the people in this room- I’m a means to closing the rifts, nothing more.  I should be more used to this by now. Either a Trevelyan or a Herald, never just Fee.

I realize I haven’t finished my sentence, not that I really know what to say, but Leliana’s already countering Cullen. “If we don’t even try to beat Alexius, we lose the mages. And leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep.”

            “Even if we could assault the keep, it would be for naught.” Josephine says impatiently. “An Orlesian Inquisition army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war. Our hands are tied.”

            Cassandra leans forward. “The Magister-”

            “Has outplayed us.” Cullen cuts her off, his voice still business-like and harsh.

            I take a deep breath, refocusing. “We haven’t lost yet. And I’m not going to let the rebel mages spend the rest of their lives as slaves to Alexius because the Venatori cult wanted to get at me.”

Cullen gives a little sigh of frustration. “If we go to the Templars-”

            “We’ll be abandoning the mages to Alexius!” I snap at him, struggling to keep my emotions in check. “Maybe you don’t give a damn about that, but I do.”

            There’s a shocked silence, and Cullen stares at me. Cassandra breaks the moment with her even voice, “We cannot accept defeat now. There must be a solution.”

            I really love Cassandra.

Another deep breath. I try to rein my temper back in. “Have we even considered all of our options? We don’t have to march in with an army, Josephine. And Cullen, we don’t need to make some grand assault on Redcliffe either. It’s not just about force. Tackling a problem head on isn’t always the smart way to go.” I turn to Leliana. “We need to think more subtly. There might be another way to get into the castle. We could infiltrate it through… the sewers, maybe? Take Redcliffe Castle back from the inside?”

            A slow smile slides across Leliana’s face. “There is a secret passage into the castle that should still exist. An escape route for the family. It’s too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through.”

            “Too risky.” Cullen shakes his head. “Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the magister.”

            “That’s why we need a distraction.” Leliana’s eyes are glittering with excitement now. “Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly.”

            “Focus their attention on the Herald, while we take out the Tevinters. It’s still risky, but it could work.” Cullen agrees.

             “We’ll _have_ to make it work.” I say, feeling another headache start behind my eyes.

            “The plan puts you in the most danger. We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this. It’s up to you.” Cullen’s voice softens a little bit as he addresses me.

            His gentle concern now makes me bite back the bitter remark that comes to mind. _Don’t worry, Commander. I’ll be careful not to lose the mark. Or, you know, die._ It had hurt a little more than it should. I run my hand through my hair and say evenly, “I’m excellent bait. We just need to do a little more planning.”

            The door flies open, Dorian striding in dramatically with a scout scurrying behind him. “Fortunately, you’ll have help,” the mage announces.

            “Dorian of House Pavus,” I raise my eyebrows. “You like to make introductions with style, don’t you?”

            Things are either to get a lot better, or a lot worse. Hell if I know which one.

           


	10. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe Castle  
> (I'm apologizing in advance, as there's quite a bit of in-game dialogue in this chapter! I promise next chapter will have all original dialogue.)

            “This is the same amulet Alexius used before.” Dorian holds up the little thing that blasted us into the future. It looks so harmless now, stupid thing. “I think it’s the same one we made in Minrathos. That’s a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to re-open the rift.”

            “An hour? That’s impossible. You must go now!” Leliana’s scarred face contorts as she looks at Dorian.

            I almost didn’t recognize the Spymaster when Dorian and I found her in the torture chambers. Even her eyes are changed, no longer a glittering, calculated blue. They’re dull. Dead. Empty. And Solas and Cassandra’s eyes aren’t much better, shadowed and glowing with red lyrium.

            I’ve been running around this hell future on the verge of tears, but there’s been no time to let my emotions get the better of me. That is, I’ve been so busy trying to stay alive that I haven’t curled up into a ball and rocked back and forth crying. Which I suppose is a good thing.

            The ground shakes under my feet, and I have a hard time tamping down on the panic again. _Stay calm. Stay calm._ “Is anyone else feeling that?” I squeak, which is definitely not very calm sounding, even to me.

            Bits of stone from the ceiling crumble around us as some sort of screech sounds from outside the castle. “The Elder One,” Leliana breathes.

            “You cannot stay here.” Solas’ voice is so unnervingly distraught. _Please, Solas. If you panic, I’m going to break down right here._

But Solas looks at Cassandra, and they seem to have a moment of understanding as they nod at each other. “We’ll hold the outer door. When they get past us, it’ll be your turn.” Solas says.

            “No.” I reply before my brain has time to catch up to my mouth. I feel hysteria bubbling to the surface. “No, I can’t let you do that. It’s suicide!”

            “Look at us,” Leliana cuts in darkly. “We are already dead. The only way we’ll live is if this day never comes.”

            I shake my head, my fingers pressed to my temples. “You said yourself this was real to you. If you… I… I don’t know. But I _can’t_ let you die for me.” I'm floundering for words, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let free.

            “Fiona.” Cassandra steps toward me, her hands gripping my shoulders tightly. “You must stop this.”

            She meets my eyes and holds them for a moment that seems to stretch beyond this horrible future. “I’m sorry,” I swallow back the lump in my throat, looking at Leliana, Solas, and then back to Cassandra. The people who have believed in me and helped me... people I care about. “I’m so sorry. I won’t let this happen. I won’t.”

            Cassandra squeezes my shoulders and steps away, drawing her sword as she and Solas walk through the main doors.

            “Cast your spell,” Leliana says to Dorian, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the door sealing behind Cassandra and Solas. “You have as much time as I have arrows.”

            Dorian runs up the steps to where the throne used to be, now reduced to rubble. I follow, my hands shaking. Maker, my whole body is shaking.

            There’s shouts outside, clanging and the familiar roar of the monsters Solas once identified as Terrors.

            “Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame.” Leliana’s voice carries as Dorian slams his staff into the floor, green light spiraling from the amulet that now floats before us.

            I turn back to face the door, notching an arrow and preparing to fire at whatever comes through. My fingers are trembling, the bow unsteady in my hands.

            “Almost have it.” Dorian mutters. “Talk about working under pressure... and overtime.”

            “I’ll make sure to buy you a pony or whatever the hell you want if we get back and stop this from happening.” I answer through clenched teeth, trying to steady my bow.

"Would it be a pretty pony?" Dorian's voice is strained.

"The prettiest." 

            The doors burst open, and at first it’s just a mass of demons and monsters storming through. But then I see the familiar bald head and shabby robes under foot, and Cassandra’s body thrown into the main hall.

I shoot, my arrow flying as Leliana fires as well.

“Andraste guide me.” Leliana’s voice carries to me as she takes several steps back from the advancing horde. “Maker, take me to your side.”

            _Maker, no._

            I aim and shoot again, and again, but the demons are closing in on Leliana.

            One of the Terrors seizes Leliana by the throat and throws her across the room, where her body slams into the wall.

            “Leliana!”

            I start to run for her before Dorian grabs my arm. “You move, and we all die!” He shouts as Leliana scrambles to her feet, now using her bow to bludgeon the creatures trying to make it up the stairs. 

            There’s a rift open now—one with blue in addition to green, swirling before Dorian.

            Leliana disappears under the mass of demons as they advance toward the newly opened rift.

            “Dorian,” I reach for another arrow, only to find there’s just one left. “This is it.”

            “Almost…” Dorian says tightly.

            Something pulls my breath away, a brilliant light flashing white behind my eyes. I blink, and find myself standing next to Dorian again, with Magister Alexius alive in front of me.

            I yank my last arrow out and aim, point-blank, at Alexius.

            “You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian quips.

            “Cassandra? Solas?” I ask, keeping my eyes, and my arrow, fixed on the Magister.

            “We’re here.” Cassandra’s voice replies, and I sigh in relief. Leliana should be fine in this present as well. “Though I would like to know what that magic was.”

            “Alexius tried to destroy the world. And failed,” I say tightly. “Surrender Alexius, or I swear I’ll put this arrow through your forehead right now.” I’m even surprised by my own fury, and Dorian tenses next to me.

            Alexius falls to his knees. “You’ve won.” He sounds like he lost a game of cards, not his attempt to kill everyone in Thedas. “There is no point extending this charade.”

            “Do you have any idea what you would’ve done? All of Thedas would’ve been destroyed!” I seethe at the Magister.

            Dorian looks at me with a small frown. “He’s surrendered. I believe your people can take him into custody now.”

            “Yes, creating a future where everyone is dead is usually grounds for at least an arrest.” I nod to some of the Inquisition infiltrators before lowering my bow, Leliana’s people securing the room quickly. “So do you want a pony, or something else?” I ask Dorian after my eyes find a perplexed and grumpy Cassandra and a wonderfully serene Solas.

            “Give me some time to think about it. I’m sure I’ll find something preposterously grand.” Dorian answers, though he’s watching Felix approach the magister.

            “Felix,” Alexius calls softly.

            “It’s going to be alright, Father.” Felix answers, just as gently, as he places his hand on his father’s arm and kneels.

            Alexius shakes his head. “You’ll die.” The pain in his voice forces me to remember that his crazed and destructive plan was ultimately for his son. Leliana’s infiltrators step toward Alexius, swords drawn.

            “Everyone dies.” Felix says as Alexius is taken away. Felix straightens, his eyes downcast.

            “Well, I’m glad that’s over with.” Dorian says brightly- much too brightly for the situation. But we all turn at the sound of marching as armored forces, very much _not_ the Inquisition’s, stomp into the room. “Or not.”

            It’s King Alistair who enters the room, looking particularly angry—an expression I’ve never seen on his face.

            “Grand Enchanter,” the King of Ferelden says as he advances. “Imagine how surprised I was to learn you’d given Redcliffe Castle away to a Tevinter Magister.”

            I remember that Fiona’s in the room, and turn to see the mage stepping toward Alistair with her hands clasped before her as she wrings them. “King Alistair.” She sounds nervous, and understandably so.

            “I’m still a little unsure of how exactly Redcliffe ended up in his hands in the first place. Especially since I’m fairly sure that Redcliffe belongs to Arl Teagan.” Alistair’s voice turns hard again as he looks at Fiona.

            “Your majesty… we never intended-”

            “I know what you intended.” Alistair interrupts her coldly. “I wanted to help you, but you’ve made it impossible. You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

            “But… we have hundreds who need protection.” The Grand Enchanter stares at the King of Ferelden almost pleadingly. “Where will we go?”

            I hold up my hand. “I should point out that we did come here for mages to close the breach.” The Grand Enchanter made a deal with a Tevinter Magister, so it’s a mystery to me why she’s not throwing herself at the Inquisition right now.

            “I know you!” Alistair says suddenly. “Don’t tell me. Hm. We ate an entire pie together once. Lady… I should be better with names.”

            “Fee Trevelyan,” I answer with a short laugh. King Alistair and the Queen had visited Ostwick a few years before, and Alistair and I had quickly bonded over our shared love of cherry pie and cheese.

            Alistair snaps his fingers. “That's what it was! The Trevelyans of Ostwick. I’d heard it was a Trevelyan who joined the Inquisition. Aren’t they calling you the Herald of Andraste?”

            “That’s what they say, but I really just have a glowing hand that can close the rifts, and hopefully the breach.” I answer, casting a side-glance at the Grand Enchanter. “And to do so, we’re going to need help from the mages.”

            “What would be the terms of our arrangement?” Fiona asks me, her eyes narrowing.

            “Hopefully better than what Alexius gave you.” Dorian moves closer to us, raising an eyebrow. “The Inquisition _is_ better than that, yes?”

            “I suggest we conscript them.” Cassandra crosses her arms. “They’ve proven what they’ll do given too much freedom.”

            Solas doesn’t look at the Seeker as he tells me, “They have lost all possible supporters. The Inquisition is their only remaining chance at freedom.”

            “It seems we have little choice but to accept whatever you offer.” Grand Enchanter Fiona seems to be grasping at what’s left of her dignity after being outright banished from Ferelden.

            Why do I always get stuck making the decisions? “The mages don’t have anywhere else to go. And they only got wrapped up in this whole mess because Alexius was trying to get to me.” I say to Cassandra, before looking back to Fiona. “I saw what happens if we can’t close the breach.”

I take a deep breath, realizing that the King of Ferelden, his forces, the Inquisition infiltrators, Dorian, Cassandra, Solas, and the Grand Enchanter are all staring at me. My heart beats faster in my chest, probably a combination of having every eye on me and thinking about dark future I have to prevent.

            “We need to work together.” I tell the Grand Enchanter, pretending no one else is in the room. “Become allies of the Inquisition. Help us close the breach before it’s too late.”

            The elf seems to measure me with her eyes. “I pray that the rest of the Inquisition honors your promise.”

            “We’ll discuss this. Later.” Cassandra practically growls, and I resist the urge to cringe or apologize. There’s also a flash of annoyance that crosses my mind as I wonder why she just didn’t make the damn decision herself then. The mages just avoided slavery to Tevinter—forcing them into servitude for the Inquisition would be wrong.

            “We can’t afford to be divided now,” I say, returning my attention to both her and everyone else in the room. “The breach threatens to destroy all of Thedas, and we need full cooperation.” I look back to the Grand Enchanter.

            “I’d take that offer, if I were you.” Alistair instructs icily. “One way or another, you’re leaving my kingdom.”

            Fiona bows her head for a moment before meeting my eyes. “Then… we accept. It would be madness not to.”

            I hold my hand out to her, trying to ignore my heart pounding nervously against my ribcage. “Then we stand together, for the sake of Thedas.”

            The Grand Enchanter clasps my hand. “I will gather my people and ready them for the journey to Haven. The breach will be closed—you will not regret giving us this chance.”

            “I really hope not.” I say under my breath.

           

           

           

           


	11. Prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven, Chantry.

            “The mages will meet us tomorrow at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, accompanied by Inquisition forces.” Cassandra tells me as I approach my cabin. “Rest well. We will need to leave at dawn.”

            I snort, trying to push away the uneasiness that’s been nagging in the corners of my mind since Redcliffe. “You mean, you’ll wake me up in a few hours in my nightclothes and stick me on a horse whether I’ve gotten sleep or not.”

            Cassandra sighs. “Maybe you should go to bed in your armor.”

            “Good idea,” I answer with a wink. “Night, Cassandra.”

            The Seeker nods to me as I head inside, and I actually do pull on my armor. Anything for a few more minutes of sleep.

            But sleep doesn’t come, and I’m tossing and turning in bed. I see Leliana’s face with scars deep in her skin, Solas and Cassandra trampled under a horde of demons, and the breach in the sky turning what should’ve been blue to a sickly green. _“I won’t let this happen.”_

            With a growl, I throw off my blanket and lace up my boots, my fingers clumsily fumbling with the strings.

            When I push the cabin door open, Haven is still and quiet. Tomorrow’s the day that will determine how the Inquisition proceeds. If I can’t close the breach, then the world falls apart and everyone dies. No pressure, right?

            The chilly air bites at my skin as I half-stomp to the chantry, already aggressively trying to bargain with the Maker in my mind. Not that I have much to bargain with. 

            The chantry has only one torch flickering from the war room, but it's at least warm and familiar. I find my favorite napping nook and curl up there. But again, sleep doesn't come. The silence is unbearable.

            “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.” I say quietly, my voice echoing through the chantry. I feel another stupid lump form in my throat—it’s refused to go away since I was thrown into the future. My stomach is nothing but knots, as well, and I can’t stop worrying about what will happen if I can’t close the breach. How many people will die if I can’t do it?

            “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.” I whisper, waves of nausea rolling over me. I haven’t cried yet. Not since the Inquisition started. I try to choke it back now.

            “For there… For there is…” My breathing comes in sharp, uncomfortable bursts. “For there is n-no… Damn it.” I can’t do it anymore.

            There’s a strange shuffling noise and I blink, startled, in the darkness. “For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.” It’s Cullen’s voice, coming from the direction of the war room. As he draws closer, I can see that he’s holding a pile of papers.

            “Cullen.” I state intelligently, before realizing my cheeks are wet. I quickly wipe at my face, hoping he didn’t see. “I… Uh… Didn’t know you were in here.”

            The Commander stops a few steps away from me, and uses his free hand to rub the back of his neck. “I was reading the newest reports on the rebel mage forces and I heard you.”

            “Oh.” I now have knots in my stomach _and_ the wonderful added bonus of humiliation at being caught crying. “I’m not very good at memorizing things. It’s one of many reasons I argue with my mother over my becoming a chantry sister.”

            Cullen stares at me, and even in the dim light, I can see his incredulous expression. “You? A chantry sister?” His voice suggests my mother wanted me to become Empress of Orlais.

            “Preposterous, right?” I ask, my lips twitching.

            “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to-”

            I wave my hand. “Don’t apologize, Cullen. I would make the worst chantry sister in history. Can you imagine? ‘Sister Fiona, I’ve told you a hundred times- don’t use the name of the Maker’s Bride and _saggy tits_ in the same sentence!’”

            Cullen chuckles at that and finally stops looming over me. He leans his back against the wall and slides down to the floor in a very un-Commander-like fashion. If it weren’t dark, I’d swear he was blushing. “You get along much better with Inquisition forces.” He comments lightly.

            “That I do. I can throw snowballs at recruits and curse as much as I like. I don't think chantry mothers would appreciate that.” I take a deep breath. “We’ll see if I swear up a storm tomorrow as well.”

            “I’m sure you’ll think of something creative.” Cullen tells me, and a moment of silence stretches between us while I think of a way to excuse myself. “You’re worried about our assault on the breach.”

            It’s not question. “Aren’t you?” I twist a piece of bronze hair around my finger. “You were one of many who told me the mages weren’t reliable, and that I shouldn’t have allied with them.”

            “I did say that, didn’t I?” Cullen answers, frowning. “Hearing you’d offered the rebel mages an alliance was… not what I expected.”

            “I don’t think I really expected it either.” I move on to another strand of hair, not meeting Cullen’s eyes. “Everyone was upset about it. Everyone other than Solas. I mean, Blackwall acted like he agreed with me before skulking off somewhere to continue avoiding me for Maker knows what reason.” Except I think I do know the reason. “Even Dorian was warning me about the deal I’d made with the mages. I don’t even know if I made the right decision anymore. What if we can’t close the breach tomorrow? Should I have gone to the Templars instead and left the mages enslaved to Alexius? I just-” I break off with a groan of frustration. Then it hits me I’ve been ranting to Cullen and I want to sink into the ground.

            I _know_ better than to talk about my fears. Cullen hardly needs more things to worry about as well.

            “I’m sorry.” I say quickly, pushing myself to my feet. “I got carried away. I’m just tired and it’s the lack of sleep talking now.”

            “You did what you thought was right.” Cullen’s voice makes me turn back to face him. He’s standing again, shadows crossing his face. “I have my reservations about the mages, but that shouldn’t take away from the alliance you made. An alliance that I believe will close the breach.”

            “If it doesn’t?” I ask quietly. “What if it’s not even the mages, Cullen? What if _I_ can’t do it? There has to be a plan, or some sort of idea of what we can do. In that future I saw, Thedas was destroyed because I didn’t stop the breach and this ‘Elder One’. That means if I fail…”

            “We have to have faith.” Cullen says firmly.

            “I’d like a little more to go off of than just that.” I reply, rubbing my eyes. “Especially with the way I pray. The Maker's probably downright offended with my attempts at the chant.”

            That gets him to smile, if only for a brief moment. “Not just faith in the Maker. The Inquisition has faith in you.”

            “That must seem scary to you now, considering I’ve been blubbering about how I have no idea if this will work.” I answer with a short laugh.

            Cullen steps closer toward me. “It’s… actually reassuring.”

            “Reassuring? Now you’re just lying to make me feel better.” I roll my eyes dramatically.

            “I think you’ve encountered my criticism enough to know I’m not really capable of doing that,” Cullen chuckles before his expression turns serious. “It’s reassuring to know that you’re not leading the Inquisition with no doubts. I told you about Kirkwall, and of Knight-Commander Meredith. She was so _sure_ she was right in all of her convictions that she never questioned herself. That you think on your past decisions, and worry for alternatives in the future… it speaks well of you.”

            I blink at the Commander. “I, uh.” Somehow we’re standing very close to each other, his honey and amber eyes glowing warmly in the darkness. “Oh.” _Very eloquent. So much poise. Fee, you are a bumbling idiot._

            “Were you expecting more disagreement?” Cullen teases. Andraste’s Ass, he’s actually teasing me.

            I snap out of whatever bizarre and awkward trance I was in. “Maybe a little bit. You could’ve told me I was reassuring in a more disapproving tone. Or scowled.” We both laugh and a more comfortable silence stretches between us as I take a deep breath and feel a little less like I’m about to fall apart. I scratch the back of my head. “I suppose I should stop moping around the chantry and get some sleep,” I sigh.

            “We’ll need you well rested for tomorrow,” Cullen agrees. In a lower voice, he adds, “If we don’t succeed at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, we _will_ find another way.”

            He says it with so much resolve, I actually believe him.


	12. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven.

            I grin, standing at the top of the stairs that overlook Haven. I laugh, too. Maybe in a slightly crazed, overtired, still-not-sure-if-this-is-real way, but I laugh.

            Matt and the other recruits are singing loudly, while Flissa dances with a very drunk Adan. Others have joined in as well, and I feel like my cheeks might actually hurt from how much I’ve been smiling.

            “Boss!” Bull approaches with Blackwall, the Qunari holding the type of flask Sera loves. The giant kind, that is. “You celebrating from up here?”

            I nod enthusiastically. “We did it. The Inquisition did it.” I can’t remember the last time I’d beamed so much. I probably look like a moron, but I don’t particularly care. “I’m going to soak this all up and then take a very, very long nap.”

            The breach is closed. There’s a scar in the sky, but it’s not spitting out demons. And there are still rifts to be taken care of, but that’s to be discussed after everyone is over their hangovers tomorrow. Even Cassandra made it clear that while there was work to be done, today was still a victory. She’d even smiled and seemed pretty damn proud. She earned it.

            “You’ve been wanting that nap for weeks now,” Blackwall rumbles, but he’s also smiling.

            “It’ll be the nap of the century,” I answer, loving the sounds of celebration and the smell of the bonfire.

            Bull claps me on the shoulder before saying, “I need more ale. But good work, Boss.”

            “Same to you, Bull. The Chargers were great lookouts for us today,” I tell him as the Qunari effortlessly hurries down the steps. He’s surprisingly graceful for his size and build.

            I realize Blackwall and I are left alone, which is something we _haven’t_ been since I’d nearly kissed him. My face flushes at the memory, and I quickly say, “I suppose we all have a bit of a break now. I mean, I’ll be taking a nap. A very long one. Do you plan on drinking Sera under the table?”

            Blackwall chuckles, and I relax at the sound. “Sera’s already challenged three people. Mitchell included.”

            I roll my eyes. “Mitchell just wants her drunk so Sera won’t notice when he stacks the deck.”

            “I’m sure that she’ll be passed out long before he can take her money.” Blackwall crosses his arms and looks at me almost lazily. Contentedly would be a better word, I think. And confusing. Damn confusing. I didn’t intend to feel this way. After all the lies, betrayals, and games I’m so careful with whom I grow attached to. Why do I have to care so much, and have my stomach flutter, for the sometimes serious, sometimes bantering, always trustworthy Grey Warden?

            “I haven’t thought too much about what happens now.” I say quietly, looking away from the Warden and up into the cloudy sky. “I know I’ll stay to help close the remaining rifts. But… what will you do?”

            Blackwall exhales deeply, and I wince. I shouldn’t have asked. Why did I ask? Everything was going just fine!

But then he replies, “I’m not sure.”

“Oh.” I blink and study my boots. “I know the Wardens have lots of their own stuff. Wardeny things. So it makes sense if you need to leave.” Wardeny things? I have no idea what I’m talking about, flailing for words. I hate talking sometimes.

“And if I don’t need to leave?” Blackwall’s voice is low. “Or even if I need to, my lady, even if I should… If I want to stay?”

I feel my heart skip a beat as I raise my eyes to his. There’s something else in his gaze now. I can feel my cheeks warming again, breath catching. “Then stay.” I whisper.

Blackwall steps closer, the tip of his nose level with my eyes as I tilt my face up to his. The Warden says quietly, “I’ve been alone for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be with anyone. I’m not sure I know how anymore.”

            Then he leans down, breath hot against my skin and smelling like hard cider. Maker, _he_ smells like apples and wood chips and pine trees.

            His lips are on mine as I press myself against him, my eyes fluttering closed. Our mouths move together as my fingers grasp at his coat and one of his hands buries itself in my hair, the other on the small of my back, holding me close.

            That’s when the bells go off and Blackwall and I pull apart. My eyes are wide as I try comprehending what just happened on so many levels. So many confusing levels. I need a bucket of cold water or to kiss him some more, but neither of those are level-headed options at the moment.

            “What the hell is happening now?” I hiss as I grab my bow from where I’d tossed it against the side of the Threnn’s tent. Blackwall and I fall in step together.

            “Enemy forces approaching—to arms!” Cullen’s shouting from down the stairs.

            The sounds of celebration turn into barked orders and panicked screams. Blackwall and I meet the others by the gates. Cassandra and Cullen are already discussing the situation. The _attack._ Attackers who aren’t even marching under a banner.

            “So much for my nap.” I mutter as there’s banging from the gates.

            “I can’t come in unless you open!” A voice calls.

            The guards push the door open after a nod from Leliana, and Cullen and I rush out together. It’s a man, or maybe a boy, in a massive floppy hat standing amidst a pile of bodies.

            It’s a blur as the boy, Cole, explains his warning.

            “Templars!” Cullen storms forward to Cole, holding his sword out. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly!”

            “The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him, he knows you.” Cole says, pale blue eyes peeking out from under his hat. “There.” He points toward the cliffs, and my stomach rolls. The Elder One. The one who destroyed the world once in Redcliffe’s future.

            I can’t make much out, other than the plainly visible Templar forces marching in mass numbers toward Haven through the mountains.

            “He’s very angry that you took his mages.” Cole whispers.

            “Well I’m not too fucking happy at the moment either.” I answer. “Cullen, we need a plan. And I’ll take anything at the moment.”

            “Haven is no Fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle.” Cullen’s eyes blaze and I notch an arrow before nodding to him, knowing I need to make it to the trebuchets. “Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can.”

            I see my companions behind me as I turn back to look at them. “Blackwall, Solas, Vivienne, with me. The rest of you defend the gates when the forces break through,” I say quickly, not having time to ask politely or even wonder about how natural it suddenly is to take charge.

            Cullen’s the Commander, the leader, as he turns to the soldiers, recruits, and mages. “Mages, you have sanction to engage them. That is Samson, he will not make it easy. Inquisition!” He holds his sword high above him. “With the Herald! For your lives, for all of us!”

            I run for the north trebuchet first, Solas and Vivienne at my back as Blackwall tears in front of me, using his shield as a battering ram until we reach a pack of things in half Templar armor, half red crystal. It’s not until the things are killed that I realize it was red lyrium that mutated Templars into those monsters.

            We hold the north trebuchet, and then we’re running south. There are bodies of both Templars and Inquisition soldiers as we charge. I can’t think about it now. I can’t wonder if it’s my friends.

            It’s a blur of fighting and dodging before we retake the trebuchet, and Vivienne and Blackwall fight off more of the Templar forces as Solas and I aim the giant weapon. The last of the attacking Templars on the trebuchet fall just as it launches into the mountains, starting an avalanche that takes out the Templar forces still in the pass in a flurry of white.

            I breathe a sigh of relief as a cheer rises up among the Inquisition forces around us. But then the trebuchet bursts into flames as Solas and I jump, barely in time.

            “A dragon?” I clamber to my feet. It’s definitely a dragon. “Perfect. Just great. We need to get to the gates.” I shout the last part to the soldiers nearby.

            We find Harrit on the way, Blackwall kicking the door to the smithy open for the man as I let Inquisition soldiers run past us. Matt is among them. _Please, Maker, keep them safe._

At the gates, I can’t agree with Cullen more as he order everyone regroup at the chantry. But getting there is nearly impossible as Templar forces have swarmed Haven. It doesn’t stop us from fighting our way to everyone we can, and sending them running to safety.

            It’s not until Threnn makes it to the chantry that we push our way inside. Blood is roaring in my ears as I pant, arms trembling with exhaustion.

            Chancellor Roderick herds the townsfolk in, his face bruised. Cole helps him before announcing to me that the Chancellor is going to die.

            For a moment when the doors close behind us, my head spins, but Cullen runs toward me and my vision focuses.

            “Herald, our position is not good. That dragon sold back any time you might’ve earned us.” Cullen informs me hurriedly as Blackwall and the others hurry to help the injured in the chantry as they barricade themselves down the stairs to the prison.

            “I’ve seen an archdemon.” Cole says. “I was in the fade, but it looked like that.”

            “I don’t care what it looks like,” Cullen snaps. “It’s cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven.”

            Cole shakes his head. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

            Everything I can think about stops. “The Elder One… he’s doing this to get me?” My voice sounds far away as I feel the air completely squeezed from my lungs. It’s all my fault. All the bodies I passed, the screaming—it’s all because of me. “Then he can have me. No one else will die.”

            “No. He won’t stop. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them. Kill them anyway.” Cole says from underneath his hat. “I don’t like him.”

            Cullen glowers. “You don’t like-?” He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets—cause one last slide.”

            “To do that, we’d bury Haven.” I answer, holding my forehead.

            “We’re dying. But we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.” Cullen tells me grimly.

            I shake my head. “There has to be another way. If I ride out, there’s still a chance the Elder One won’t try to take Haven. Or if I can cause enough of a distraction, you might be able to find a way to escape.”

            “You won’t be able to make it out of the chantry.” Cullen argues.

            “You can’t just give up! We can find a way to buy more time.” My hands curl into fists.

            Cole murmurs ‘yes’ and Cullen and I both turn to him. “Chancellor Roderick can help.” Cole looks at me, his head bobbing up and down as he nods.

            The alternative comes, the path for a little known pilgrimage. An escape. I want to kiss Chancellor Roderick, but I doubt he’d appreciate it.

            Cullen nods at the idea, and I take a deep breath. “I’ll stay behind and fire on Haven once you all are out safely. Send a flare as a signal when you’re ready.”

            “And what of your escape?” Cullen asks.

            “I think we both know the answer to that.” I mutter, shuffling over to a pile of weapons, probably from dead soldiers, and taking arrows from another quiver and shoving them into my own. There’s an eerie sense of calm washing over me now.

            Cullen puts a hand on my arm. “Try to find a way.” He says as his warm brown eyes bore into my own. Then he turns. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry. Move!”

            “Herald,” Chancellor Roderick wheezes as Cole helps him walk. “If you were meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.”

            “Survive this, Chancellor. Survive this and keeping pissing off Cassandra.” I tell him, before I actually do kiss his cheek gently. “She’ll miss it, otherwise.”

            Cullen assigns a group to load the trebuchets, and I make them promise they’ll run back after its done.

            I don’t see Blackwall again before I run back out into Haven. He might not even know the plan yet.

            Red Templars are everywhere as I fight my way back through the main doors. Without Blackwall and Cassandra, or even Bull, it’s harder to keep from getting stabbed. I scrabble to high ground when I can, but I’m running out of arrows.

            Matt appears as I make it to the trebuchet, along with Captain Roslyn’s squad. “Once we aim this,” I shout to them, “you run back into Haven!”

            “Understood, Ser.” Captain Roslyn barks back as she pulls on her side of the trebuchet.

            We have it turned around when the dragon appears again. “Move, now.” I order, just as flames burst around us.

            I roll to the side, and as I pull myself to my feet, I see their retreating figures. All except Matt, who is struggling to stand many paces away from me. I can’t reach him at the moment.

            I notch an arrow as the dragon lands. A giant, terrifying, gray dragon, within shooting distance if I thought shooting it would make a difference.

            Something—someone—climbs down from the beast. It looks twisted by red lyrium, but aged and cracked. The Elder One. It has to be. It—he—whatever it is—strides forward. He’s a giant, towering over me. “Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your kin no more.”

            “Why are you doing this?” I ask, fixing my arrow on him. “Why do you want to kill everyone? This is insane!”

            “Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are, what I was.” He steps forward, his skin grotesquely twisted. I glance back at Matt, who’s up and clutching his side with his right arm, his sword dangling from his left hand.

The thing doesn’t acknowledge Matt’s there, and I now have to stall for Haven’s people and for Matt. The Elder One growls, “Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus. _You will kneel_.” He points to me.

“No, thanks. You’re a murderer, and I’m not too inclined to give a damn about what you want at the moment.” I answer, my mouth twisting. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re doing this? Because frankly, I don’t understand.” I can feel my eyes blazing.

“Your understanding is not required. If you gain it, consider yourself blessed.” The Elder One, maybe Corypheus, says.

Matt’s staggering forward, and I try to keep the thing’s attention. “I met someone like you once. He was that much of a pompous ass. Lord Seeker Lucius. You two ever met?”

The Elder One unsurprisingly ignores me. “I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now.” The Elder One reaches out from a distance, holding some silvery orb and pain explodes inside my hand, ripping through my arm and into my head. “It is your fault, Herald. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning. And instead of dying, you stole its purpose.” The Elder One is glowing with red light as I grab my wrist and try to pull away from whatever magic he’s using. “I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens.”

            I manage to pull away, or maybe the Elder One stops, and I crumple to the ground clutching my hand. When I raise my head, Matt is charging at the thing, sword held for the kill.

            The Elder One bats at Matt, sending him flying into the trebuchet. I can hear something crunch. Bones. No. No, no, no. “Matt.” I gasp from the ground. It hurts to talk. It hurts to move. The dragon twists itself around me.

            “And you used the anchor to undo my work. The gall.” The Elder One hisses as he moves forward.

            I push myself to my knees and then to my feet. I will _not_ kneel. “Your work was killing everyone, you bastard!” I try to grasp for my bow, but it’s been knocked away. Time. There’s no signal flare yet, I need time. “What’s this thing even meant to do?” I shout.

            “It was meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.” The Elder One strides forward and grasps my arm, yanking me up and leaving my legs flailing beneath me. “I once breached the fade in the name of another, to serve the old Gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption and dead whispers. For a thousand years, I was confused. But no more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. Beg, and I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.”

Then I’m flying through the air, slamming against the trebuchet. Agony rips through ribs. I hear the Elder One’s voice as muddled. “The anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.”

My head rolls and I see Matt’s motionless form. “Matt,” I call weakly, but he doesn’t stir. His sword lies between us. I grab it as I haul myself up yet again, eyes burning with pain and anger. “I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you want.” I hiss.

The dragon stomps behind the Elder One as it approaches. “So be it. I will begin again. Find another way to give this world the nation, and god, it requires.”

There’s a faint whistle of magic, and I see the flare sent up. It’s over. “You.” The Elder One rumbles. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

“And you’re a bloody nug-humper.” I mutter. “But you’re not going to touch anyone else from Haven.” I lunge for the trebuchet release, clutching Matt’s sword and praying, _Maker be with us all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long, so thank you to everyone who's reading so far! *at least there were kisses- or, uh, a kiss*


	13. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frostback Mountains.

            I shouldn’t have invested in fingerless gloves. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but that’s how buying armor can be. Or pretty dresses. At least I'm not wandering in this blizzard in one of my dresses from Ostwick. There's the silver lining! 

It's a pretty crappy silver lining.

I can’t even feel my fingers anymore. Or move them.

            Snow blows into my face, and every breath hurts. Not just because of the frigid air, but because I think something cracked when I hit the trebuchet.

            There’s something that’s very much _not_ snow in the distance, and I try to clutch Matt’s sword with numb fingers as I slog to what looks like a put-out fire. Maybe recent embers?

            Maybe I’m getting close?

            Another step. One foot. Another foot. My teeth are chattering, my whole body shaking. Part of my mind registers that I’m probably going to die out here, but the other part forces me to keep moving.

            I’m starting to hate the color white. It’s everywhere, all I can see. 

            My legs give out and I sprawl in the snow. Matt’s sword falls with me, and I can’t even move my arm to try to get it.

            Maybe if I rest a little bit…

            “There, it’s her!” Cullen?

            “Thank the Maker.” Cassandra.

            I can’t lift my head, eyes already closed. Then there’s warmth as someone pulls me up.

            “S-sword.” I whisper.

            “What?” Cullen’s voice rumbles from right over my head.

            “M-Matt’s s-sword.” I convulse trying to speak, shivers wracking my shoulders and suddenly there’s a gentle squeeze around me. Warmer.

            “I’ve got it.” Cassandra calls. She’s always got it. I love Cassandra.

            And then we’re moving. I turn my face into the warmth and something soft rubs against my cheek. “I-it’s r-really c-c-cold.” I manage to say. I pry my eyes open, vision blurring. Cullen’s carrying me, and I have my nose buried in the soft fur lining of his coat. “A-Aren’t I h-heavy? It’s h-hard enough to w-w-walk in the s-snow.”

            “You’re alive.” Cullen answers.

            I think about it for a moment, though my thoughts come sluggishly. “Y-you avoided the q-question,” I accuse. Cassandra’s walking ahead of us, plowing her way through the snow. Weather doesn’t stand a chance against the Seeker. She’d probably frighten a storm away with sheer force of will. "D-does this mean I w-weigh more th-than a trebuchet? C-cause those things are h-heavy. I s-s-speak from experience."

            Cullen’s arms tighten around me again, and I’m more than happy to press further into warmth of his chest, which rumbles with what may be laughter. “You’re not heavy.”

            “Hmph,” I grunt. “I s-saw the s-signal. Did everyone m-m-make it out?” I shudder again, and my ribs ache at the movement.

            “Yes. Even Roslyn’s squad returned.” Cullen tells me. I can see lights now in the distance. And tents.

            I have a moment of tired happiness before I think of Cullen’s words. “N-not Matt.” I murmur into his coat. “I c-couldn’t do anything.”

            “Matthew Thanos?” Cullen asks, and I nod. There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Those who died gave their lives for everyone else who escaped.”

            I sniff before I realize I have freezing tears on my cheeks and turn my face into Cullen’s chest. Exhaustion washes over me, and I mumble something about Matt again before my eyes pull closed.

            The first time I wake, Solas is sitting over me, dark purple bags under his small blue eyes. He asks if I can move my fingers. It seems like a stupid question, but when I try, I realize I still can't do it.

            Blackwall sits at my other side, and I try to smile reassuringly at him as he takes my frozen hands in his and breathes on my fingers. I can’t even feel it.

Then I tell Cullen and Leliana in garbled words what happened. The Elder One, the anchor thing, the magister stuff. Then sleep takes over again.

            The second time my eyes open, it seems like it might be in the early hours of the morning. The sky is still dark, but it’s finally stopped snowing.

            Mother Giselle is next to me as I sit up slowly, and I can hear Cullen and Cassandra shouting at each other, along with Leliana’s frustration and Josephine’s attempts to make everyone shut up.

            It’s nearly impossible getting any of them to shut up, in reality. It can be endearing sometimes. But it's not particularly endearing at the moment.

            “From the dulcet tones of the Inquisition leaders, I’m guessing things aren’t looking pretty.” I mumble. I glance at my hands, and see that my fingers are dark and the skin waxy. I try to stretch them, but nothing happens. I’m too tired to feel anything but sick.

            “The mages will keep trying to help you,” Mother Giselle says softly. “You need rest.”

            Mother Giselle updates me on the absence of the Elder One—Corypheus. It seems that burying Haven bought us time.

            “The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem ordained. That is hard to accept, no? What we have been called to endure. What we, perhaps, must come to believe.” Mother Giselle finishes, watching me with an unnerving expression.

It’s like… she’s expecting something from me. When I just saw my friends die and can’t even move my fingers, it makes me frustrated more than anything else. What does she want me to do?

            “I barely survived the avalanche, and it was sheer luck that I did. That _Corypheus_ attacked us from nowhere with forces so strong that we couldn’t fight back. We lost so many of our own. If these trials seemed ordained, then I want no part of the Maker’s plans. What we need right now isn’t faith, but a way to keep everyone safe. I can’t-” I stand from the cot, unwrapping myself from the blankets tangled around me. “I can’t believe that we’ve been called to endure this. Not when good people died when they shouldn’t have.”

            I take a few steps before I have to catch myself on one of the tent’s posts, clutching my chest with a blackened hand. I can’t even walk on my own. “Mother Giselle, I’m sorry.” I say quietly. “I know this must be just as hard on you.” I look over my shoulder to her where she still sits, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “But the faith you have in all of this… I don’t know if I share it.”

            Taking a deep breath that makes my chest flare with pain, I look out over the camp. It’s quiet. Desolate. Leliana’s curled up with her knees to her chest while Cassandra stares blankly at a map. Cullen’s back is turned to me, one of his hands rubbing his forehead.

            Blackwall’s adding more wood to one of the fires while Solas kneels next to a little girl whose coughs wrack her tiny frame.

            Vivienne and Josephine sit quietly together, Josephine’s face grim while Vivienne’s is a veneer of calm. Sera disappeared, pacing the camp, while Varric sits with Bianca, probably watching for any signs of trouble. Dorian’s with him, dozing off. Bull and the Chargers are quietly speaking to each other. The boy, Cole, is nowhere to be seen. I’d been told Chancellor Roderick had died not long after making camp.

            My throat constricts and I duck my head, unable to look at the scene any longer. My eyes find my useless fingers again and I slump, leaning against the tent post.

            _“Shadows fall, and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come. The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.”_

Mother Giselle stands, her hands still clasped in front of her, singing softly. I press my forehead against the wooden post, letting my eyes close.

            Another voice joins in. Strong, high, sweet—Leliana. _“The shepherd’s lost, and his home is far, keep to the stars, the dawn will come. The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.”_

More people are singing, the sound swelling. I can’t open my eyes. I just want to melt into the ground. Faces flash behind my eyes. Images of the Inquisition soldiers lying in front of Haven, and then the memory of the same soldiers shrieking with laughter and throwing snowballs at each other.

            I find my voice joining in on the familiar words. _“Bare your blade, and raise it high. Stand your ground, the dawn will come.”_ I breathe again, and open my eyes. They’re kneeling. People are kneeling in front of me, faces tilted up. My feet are rooted to the ground as my voice cuts out. They’re all looking at me. To me. With the same expression that Mother Giselle had on her face minutes before.

_“The night is long, and the path is dark, look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.”_

            “An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause.” Mother Giselle says quietly to me as cheers break out. Cheers. They’re cheering as they stand again, some clasping hands with those around them.

            “Hope.” I whisper.

            Solas appears by my side, almost materializing there. “A word?” He asks.

            I nod, following him away from camp, escaping from the gathered crowd. Every step makes my ribs protest with a dull, throbbing pain. But when we make it to the top of the hill overlooking the camp, pink begins to dance across the sky.

            The dawn will come.


	14. Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            “Oh, for the love of-” I maniacally tug at the pile of wooden boards that someone dumped in the Skyhold courtyard, muttering of a string of obscenities under my breath to make myself feel better as I manage to pull a plank loose. My fingers are no longer numb, but instead throbbing painfully. Solas bandaged them after putting some disgusting smelling paste on my hands. When I wrinkled my nose, he politely informed me that when blisters bubbled up and popped, they would smell worse.

            Needless to say, I didn’t complain about the paste after that.

            “Fiona, thanks for helping with that cart earlier,” Captain Roslyn calls to me as she passes by. I wave to her happily, pausing in my swearing, and she goes back to shouting at lazy recruits.

            It’s our first day at Skyhold. Well, first full day. We arrived yesterday in the afternoon, the walls towering above us as we filed in, jaws dropped at the sheer _massiveness_ of it. _Thank you, Solas,_ I add internally as I begin dragging the wooden plank up the stairs into what we’ve decided is the great hall.

            Blackwall’s on his way down with a box, and I have to shift the way I’m carrying the plank to avoid hitting him in the face. “I thought Solas told you to rest,” Blackwall says gruffly, and I attempt to adjust the board in my arms.

            “Uh. Did he now?” I arrange my face into the most innocent expression I can manage.

            The Warden raises his eyebrows. “Did the frostbite affect your hearing as well?”

            “I’m sorry, did you say something?” I ask, leaning forward with a grin. “You’re talking so quietly! Can you speak up?” 

            He gives an exasperated sigh and shakes his head. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”

            “It’s one of my more endearing qualities.” I wink and then proceed up the stairs, the plank occasionally banging the stone steps.

            Blackwall mumbles something, but I ignore him.

            Things happened so fast, so we haven’t actually had a chance to talk. I mean, we kissed, Corypheus attacked, I almost died in an avalanche, then nearly turned into an icicle, then we all traveled in a group for days and I was scouting as much as I could with a cracked rib and blue-black fingers, and then we arrived at Skyhold and have been moving in. It was a lot of stuff. I don’t think I’ve been intentionally avoiding him.

            Things aren’t weird between us now, are they?

            Oh… What if they are? I might be completely socially inept.

            The board hits the last step and I go sprawling forward, catching myself on my elbows, which, _ouch._

“Damn it! Shitty, stupid, stairs.” I wince as I pull myself into a sitting position, shaking my arms out. The wooden plank lies innocently next to me. “I hate you.” I tell it.

            “Ah, I _thought_ I heard an angry voice.” Dorian appears standing over me, wearing a wicked grin. “You swear in such distinct way.” He holds his hand out to me, and I grasp it with bandaged fingers, struggling to my feet.

            Cullen’s with him as well, carrying four wooden planks. He then stoops down and adds mine to the pile with ease. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” He asks.

            I make a face. “I was _trying_ to help.”

            “How did that go for you?” Dorian quips, and I glare at him. “Ah. That well?”

            Cullen heads into the great hall, and Dorian and I follow him. Josephine’s already fashioned one of the Inquisition banners across the back wall, but the space is otherwise in dusty disarray.

            “Here, let me take some of those,” I try to tug one of the planks away from Cullen.

            “Did Solas say you were well enough to be carrying things around?” Cullen questions, though his voice says he already knows the answer.

            “Solas isn’t my mother,” I snap irritably, but Cullen deposits the planks down in a pile and I sigh. “Just tell me what I can do to help.”

            Cullen frowns at me. “You look terrible.”

            Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I haven’t had time to brush my hair in the last few days, and my armor is slightly blood-stained, but I mean, it’s only spots of blood. Though some of it isn’t mine, I think. Okay, that’s actually kind of gross. I’m kind of gross. Ugh.” I break off, not wanting to continue rambling about how terrible I appear.

            Dorian snorts as Cullen splutters, “N-no! I only meant- what I was trying to say was-you don’t look well. Ah, no. Maker’s Breath. I meant _not well_ in the sense that you look feverish.”

            “Oh.” Feverish is better than horrible, I suppose. I still self-consciously tug on my leather scouting jacket, wondering if the blood will scrub off. “Well, I don’t feel like I have a fever. This is the best I’ve felt in days.”

            “Considering you were dying earlier this week, I don’t know how much an improvement that is.” Cullen answers, seeming relieved that I’m not pushing further on the ‘you look horrible’ line. “Don’t overwork yourself today.”

            I salute. “Yes, ser.”

            Cullen gives me a critical eye. “You’re not going to listen to me, are you? Actually, don’t answer that,” he sighs. “You’ll have a long day ahead of you, so just… don’t injure yourself further.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, sniffing in mock offense. Though, I actually don’t know about both the long day.

Cullen just mutters, “you’ll see,” and heads back out of the great hall. I can hear him yelling at the recruits, telling them to stop messing around.

            “You two are a wonderful pair, you know that?” Dorian wiggles his eyebrows at me, and his moustache twitches. I’ve been resisting the urge to shave it off in his sleep.

            “What, me and Cullen?” I ask, drawing my eyes away from his facial hair.

            “Hm,” Dorian gives a non-answer just as Cassandra stomps into the great hall, headed toward me.

“Fiona, I need to speak with you.” The Seeker says seriously.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Dorian grins before abandoning me to the potentially grumpy woman.

            “Is something wrong?” I ask Cassandra.

            She hesitates. “No. Not wrong. But… you are needed.”

            “This sounds bad.”

            Cassandra makes some strange strangled noise before saying, “Walk with me.”

            I fall in step behind her as I think of all the worst case scenarios. “Maker’s Balls, have the scouts spotted Corypheus?” I gasp.

            “No!” Cassandra answers vehemently. “Maker, help me. How do I even begin?”

“I’m going to start throwing out random guesses.” I say, and Cassandra groans. “Skyhold is infested with spiders? Sera’s drunk again? You're pregnant with Bull's child?”

“Fiona!” Cassandra hisses angrily, and I giggle. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.” I sigh dramatically before giving her the side-eye. “Really, what’s going on?”

“It’s about you. We now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you.” Cassandra explains.

            “The anchor,” I look at my bandaged hand and flex it weakly. “It puts everyone in danger.” I meet Cassandra squarely in the eye. “Have you changed your mind about me leaving? I only suggested it because I know I keep everyone at risk. I could still travel and close rifts-”

            Cassandra makes another noise, and this time I identified it as ‘annoyed’. “You are the reason the Inquisition has survived and succeeded thus far. Which is what I wanted to discuss. The anchor has power, but it’s not why you’re still standing here.” We stop in the doorway that leads back to the stairs I just tripped on.

            “I’d say luck helped me quite a bit,” I answer honestly, leaning against the doorframe.

            “Not luck. Your decisions let us heal the sky; your determination brought us out of Haven. You are the creature’s rival because of what _you_ did.” Cassandra starts walking once more, back down the stairs, and I watch my feet so I don’t end up on my face again. “And we know it. All of us.”

            Leliana is standing halfway down the steps on a stone landing, holding a sword in her outstretched hands. There’s also a crowd gathered around beneath us, watching expectantly.

            “Cassandra, what the hell is going on?” I squeak, hopefully quiet enough that the mass amounts of people staring at me don’t hear.

            “The Inquisition requires a leader,” Cassandra stops in front of Leliana, turning to me with something fierce in her dark eyes. “The one who has already been leading it.”

            Whispers go through the crowd, and I’m ten years old at the archery contest. I fight the urge to run or swear at Cassandra.

            “You.” Cassandra says.

Her words register. Leader? Me? “Who… Why?” I manage to formulate words, not sentences.

            “All of these people have their lives because of you. They will follow.” Cassandra answers, gesturing to the sword in Leliana’s hands. The Spymaster watches me closely.

            “Cassandra, I’m not-”

            “Handing this power to anyone is troubling.” Cassandra says. “But I believe this is meant to be.” She meets my eyes with an intensity that gives me goosebumps and adds quietly, “I have faith in you, Fiona. There would be no Inquisition without you.”

            My heart pounds in my chest. It reminds me of Cullen’s words, spoken when I was terrified in Haven’s chantry before our assault on the breach. _“The Inquisition has faith in you.”_

I look out over the crowd again, my breath hitching until I finally see Cullen. He’s watching me with a smile. A proud smile. It gives me enough nerve to move my eyes from face to face. I know so many of them.

            And several of those who I know are not there. I told Corypheus I wouldn’t let him hurt anyone else from Haven. And I won’t.

            I reach with shaking, bandaged hands for the sword. It has an elaborate copper colored hilt that glints in the sunlight. It’s heavy as I lift it from Leliana’s grasp, and I hope I don’t accidentally drop it.

            I heave the sword level with great effort. My hands feel like they’re burning, and I grit my teeth. “Corypheus will kill anyone who gets in his way of destroying the world.” I feel my mouth twist. “He has to be stopped. And we have to be the ones who stop him.”

            Cassandra’s eyes narrow as she nods at me, “Wherever you lead us.” She turns to face the crowd before us, shouting, “Have the people been told?”

            Josephine calls back, “They have. And soon, the world.”

            This is surreal.

“Commander, will they follow?” Cassandra asks, her voice strong as her eyes sweep over Skyhold

            Cullen makes his way to the front of the crowd, barking, “Inquisition, will you follow?” Resounding cries answer him.

“Will you fight?” Cullen asks again, yelling over them.

The crowd responds with even more volume.

“Will we triumph?” Cullen shouts, and there’s nothing but a roar of sound from the people.

There’s blood pounding in my ears, but I’m not just scared. It’s ineffable. Terrifying and inspiring, but mixed together in a way I’ve never felt before.

Cullen turns back to face me, and I can tell even from a distance his eyes are blazing. “Your leader, your herald,” Cullen yells, “your Inquisitor!”

He raises his sword above his head as a deafening cheer breaks out.

And I answer by lifting the Inquisition sword—the Inquisitor’s sword—my sword—into the air as well, hands protesting in pain and muscles shaking. But I’m doing it. _We’re_ going to do it.

We’ll stop Corypheus.

I realize I might want to learn how to use this sword while I’m at it. Andraste’s tits, it’s heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Finally at Skyhold!* Thank you for reading what's up so far. :) The love triangle stuff will be speeding (and heating) up from here on out!


	15. Blurry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold approach/ Skyhold.

            Everything’s all warm and fuzzy and nice. Somebody’s even carrying me, which is got to be tough since I’m all tall and weigh as much as tall people do.

            I blink a few times, and I see Varric’s face upside down. “Found you!” I giggle loudly. Where did he come from anyway?

            Varric smiles at me. It fits with all the nice feelings. “Did I go somewhere, Bright Eyes?”

            I’m about to say that he came out of nowhere when I realize my head is hanging over someone’s arm. “Oh,” I say, craning my neck to look up. “Wow, that’s funny.” I drop my head back again and grin at the most chest-haired man I know. “You look very handsome upside down, you know.”

            “Just how old were your potions, Varric?” A voice complains.

            I swing my head up and gasp. “Dorian?” That’s who’s arms I’m in. “You’re here, too? Are we going somewhere fun?”

            Dorian grunts at me and shakes his head. “You definitely gave her too much of it, at any rate. And we’re going back to Skyhold, Fiona.”

“I don’t want to go back!” I protest loudly. “There’s too many people there and Josephine keeps making me talk to them.”

            There’s laughter, and I wonder if I missed the joke. Varric assures me, “We won’t make you talk to anyone until you’re feeling better, Bright Eyes.”

            I look back at Varric and tell him seriously, “You’re my favorite-ist dwarf _ever_.” Something catches my eye and I focus in on my legs. There’s blood all over my armor. “Aw, shit. Is this going to stain?”

            “Your leg was nearly cleaved apart, and you’re worried about your armor?” Dorian asks me, and I stare at him. It’s blurry, but I think I remember not dodging a sword in time, Cassandra rushing over. “I believe that I’ve finally someone more concerned with aesthetics than me!”

            “Vivienne might have you beat,” Varric chuckles.

            I’m inspecting my leg now the best I can from Dorian’s arms. There’s a bandage wrapped around my upper thigh, but it’s stained with blood, too. “Wait, where’s Cassandra? Wasn’t she with us?” I ask.

            “I’m right here.” Cassandra’s voice says, and I search wildly for her. She’s materialized right next to Varric. She looks angry. But she always looks a little angry. She has her sword out, like she’s ready to kill anything that comes at us.

            “When did you get here?” I marvel, wondering if someone used magic. “Dorian, you have magic!” I exclaim.

            “Astute observation,” he answers. I recognize that we’re close to Skyhold from the landscape. There are special rocks I recall. Funny shaped ones. I’m immediately glad my leg is all mangled so I don’t have to deal with anyone once we get inside.

            I sigh and look back at Dorian, and I realize I like his facial hair now. “Your moustache has grown on me.” I say, then hear my own words. My hand immediately flies up to my face. But there’s just skin above my lip. “Oh, not on me. I mean on you.”

            “Yes, I’ve only encountered one bearded lady before and she wasn’t you.” Dorian tells me.

            Varric raises an eyebrow. “Only one? You should hang around some of the dwarven women, then.”

            There’s a funny noise—Cassandra’s sheathing her sword. I guess she decided that there wouldn’t be any more bandits. “That’s what got me!” I shout, proud I remember. “A bandit, right?”

            “Yes. And I had tried convincing you that you were not even fully healed yet, but you insisted on surveying the area with us.” Cassandra definitely sounds angry.

            “Cassandra,” I say in a small voice. “Don’t be mad. I love you so very, ve-e-e-e-e-ry much.”

            “Let us just get her to the surgeon as fast as possible,” Cassandra sighs. “She may not be in pain thanks to Varric’s potions, but the wound is deep.”

            I look at my leg again. “That’s a lot of blood,” I inform them.

            Then we’re walking across the drawbridge, and an incredibly attractive man is  waiting for us.

            “The scout you sent ahead came back about an hour ago and told us what happened. The surgeon’s prepared for her.” The man said.

            “Varric, who’s that?” I whisper. He looks taller than me, and warm and cozy to cuddle with.

            The man looks at me with concern, and I realize that he must’ve heard me, and I must’ve sounded rude. Andraste’s ass, why am I so bad at talking?

            But then Dorian’s passing me off into the man’s arms and I’m immediately happy that he’s just as warm as I thought, with something nice and furry tickling my face. I frown when I find its armor poking into my side. This feels very familiar for some reason.

            “You take her to the surgeon, Commander. Beware, she’s not entirely in her right mind. We ran out of potions and Varric used some rather old ones. But I can’t carry her a second longer. My arms are about to fall off.” Dorian says dryly. Or maybe it’s slyly. He’s looking at me funny.

            “I thought my leg was what was about to fall off.” I reply in confusion, but the tall man is already carrying me away. He has stubble on his face, and I like it. I want to touch it, so I reach up to his chin. “I know you!” I have the sudden insight, though all I know is that I like him very much and he makes me feel safe and nice.

            He looks down at me, and I pat the side of his face. “Pretty eyes, voice all soft and nice—you’re nice! And distracting,” I say, happy to recognize him, but wondering why he’s distracting. I’m incredibly focused now. His eyes are wonderful, though. The kind of brown that’s light and shines in the sun. His cheeks are red, and I wonder if he’s got a fever, or if maybe he turns into a tomato sometimes.

            “I’ve never met someone who can turn into a tomato before.” I’m awe-struck, and the transformation continues, his face now much redder. “I won’t let anyone eat you,” I say assuringly.

Cassandra snorts at something, and I realize that she’s walking with us, telling the tall tomato man how I got sliced open, and about Varric’s on-hand potions after we’d run out of all our other stuff.

Then I see we’re in front of a tent. The surgeon’s tent. “Peter, I’ve brought the Inquisitor.” The tomato man says quickly. Except he’s not as red anymore. He seems so worried. Probably because of all the blood on my armor. Shit, I never will be able to wash it out, will I?

            “Bring her inside. I’ve already got everything I need, thanks to the scout.”

“Ooh, a scout! I was supposed to be scouting around Skyhold. Hey, is Scout Harding here?” I try to stretch my neck to see around tomato man’s shoulder.

The surgeon sighs irritably, probably because he wants to know where Scout Harding is too. “We’ll have to clean the wound before stitching it up.” Suddenly we’re inside the tent, and Cassandra’s gone.

            “Stitches?” I’m horrified. “I don’t like needles.”

            The tomato man sets me down gently on a cot, while the surgeon says, “You’ve just been sliced open with a sword. I do believe that a needle pales in comparison.”

            I feel myself beginning to panic. The fuzzy world becomes even fuzzier. Except it’s not so warm any more.

            Someone squeezes my hand and I take a deep breath and look over. It’s Cullen. “You’re the tall tomato man.” I realize, holding onto his hand tightly. “And you’re the Commander. Can you tell the surgeon not to give me stitches? I promise I won’t let anyone know you’re a tomato. I’m very good at keeping secrets, I swear.”

            The corners of Cullen’s mouth twitch, but I’m not sure why. “Just look at me. You won’t even feel it.” He looks less worried now, though there’s still little wrinkles between his eyebrows. The scar on his lip is what makes him very Cullen, and not just a tall tomato man. I also like Cullen a lot more than I do just any tall man.

            I tell him so, and he looks surprised. “I… um,” Cullen stares at me.

            “Make sure she doesn’t move,” the surgeon orders, unwrapping the bandage. My leg is quite disgusting, and the armor is completely ruined as well, hanging in shreds around the massive cut. The surgeon dumps some liquid over the wound, and it stings a bit. “She either has the pain tolerance of a saint, or she’s on some heavy painkillers.”

            “Outdated healing potions. They must’ve been incredibly potent,” Cullen supplies as the surgeon reaches for something shiny and sharp.

            My grip on Cullen’s hand tightens. “No, no, no, no.” I shake my head, and I feel like I’m about to throw up. I’ll be sure to aim to vomit on the surgeon though, not on Cullen.

            “Just look at me, Inquisitor.” Cullen says, but I can’t take my eyes off of the needle, fully panicking now, my breaths coming in bursts.

            “For a woman who faced off Corypheus, she has a strange fear of small, pointed objects.” The surgeon mumbles.

            “I’ll take Corypheus again, please.” I whimper, attempting to pull away.

            “Inquisitor.” Cullen tries to get my attention, but I’m set on inching off of the cot. “Inquisitor. In- Fee.”

            I stop when I hear my name, and find Cullen’s eyes, which are crinkled around the edges. He finds something amusing. I’m still terrified. “I don’t want stitches,” I manage to say, but I’m distracted with that scar on his lip now.

            “You won’t even feel them. Just keeping looking at me, Fee.” Cullen gives my hand a little squeeze, and I take a shaky breath. It’s easy to look at him. He looks so nice. Sometimes he looks sad, too. And tired. But today just nice. “The scout said it was a group of bandits who attacked you?”

            “Yes.” I nod. The world is getting blurrier, and I realize my leg is throbbing, pain now on top of the fuzziness. “Those asses don’t know proper fighting etiquette. Big men with swords and shields aren’t supposed to run at girls with bows. It’s that simple,” I complain. My leg truly hurts, and I grit my teeth.

            “Are you in pain?” Cullen asks quickly.

            “I think I’d like another one of Varric’s potions,” I tell him.

            Cullen raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that would be wise, Inquisitor.”

            I grimace at him. “I thought you were calling me Fee now,” I point out. The throbbing in my leg is reaching my head, and I grip Cullen’s hand tighter. His hand makes mine seem small, which makes me feel all delicate-like. Something I never feel as a tall girl with hands to match and fingers calloused from archery.

            “Oh. Uh, yes. I suppose I was.—I am.” Cullen answers, then clears his throat.

            “Done.” The surgeon says, and I look away from Cullen’s face to see neat little stitches lined up on my leg.

            I blink. “When did that happen?”

            The surgeon squats next to a bucket to rinse his hands. “When you weren’t paying attention, apparently.” He rolls his eyes and then hands me a root. “Eat this, will you?”

            I look at it and sniff. “Ohhhh, I know this. This is good stuff.” I suck on it, forgetting how exactly I know it, and what it is.

            Cullen’s still sitting next to me, and I figure out it’s because I’m keeping a tight grip on his hand. I don’t really want to let go, but I do. “Traitor.” I mutter. My eyelids are growing heavy.

            “Inqui- Fee?” Cullen asks. He’s all blurry now.

            “You distracted me.” I accuse, but my eyes are already closed. I think it’s Cullen who brushes hair away from my face.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This is actually the first chapter I wrote for this story, so I'm really excited to finally post it. ^^


	16. Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            I flip another page before yawning and glancing up from my book. Cole is still intently weaving strands of grass together while Solas speaks quietly. The elf has been patiently explaining to Cole his stance on spirits and demons. Madame de Bitchy had tried to make Cole leave just yesterday, and I’d, as politely as I could manage, told her that Cole would be staying.

            Cole asks another question, another introspective one that makes me smile to myself and close my book. “Cole, don’t be so worried about the things Vivienne said.” I tell him, stretching and immediately regretting it. My skin pulls around the stitches and burns, accompanied by an obnoxious itch.

            “But what if she could be right? I don’t want to be bad. I want to help people.” Cole looks at me seriously, though his ridiculous hat makes it hard for me not to see him as a little boy instead of…. Whatever it is he is.

            “You warned us about the Red Templars and Corypheus,” I say. “Then you helped people escape from Haven, through the Frostback Mountains, and here in Skyhold. Vivienne can stuff it.”

            Cole tilts his head to the side. “What does she stuff?”

            I snort, attempting to cover it up with a cough. “Well…”

            “Fiona means that Lady Vivienne’s opinions on you should hold no merit,” Solas puts in with a little sigh.

            “Right. Yeah, that’s what I mean.” I clarify, setting my book down next to me so I can gently rub light circles around the bandaged part of my leg.

            Solas watches me as Cole goes back to making a grass wreath or whatever it is he’s doing. “How is the pain today?”

            “Not bad,” I answer. “Considering _someone_ has put me under house arrest for the last week and kept me from going anywhere, it’s healed rather quickly.”

            “Cassandra is the one who told you not to leave Skyhold,” Solas tells me, but his lips are quirking up in a slight smile.

            “You’re the one who told her to do so.” I wrinkle my nose at the elf. “Honestly, it’s not like _every_ time I go out I get stabbed or frozen. It’s just been a recent streak of bad luck.”

            Solas sighs. “Your ‘bad luck’ is only because you insisted on patrolling the area before your first round of injuries were healed. You’ll forgive me for keeping you from continuing the pattern.”

            I make a noncommittal noise. “At least Varric’s contact will be arriving soon. It’ll give us an idea of what to do next while Josephine tries to get Empress Celene to notice us.” I still don’t understand why we don’t just go to Orlais and scream at Celene’s window. I mean, it might not give us the best reputation, but it seems like waiting for the Orlesian Empress to notice us is about as successful as watching grass grow.

            Speaking of grass, Cole holds up a little crown he made. He leans toward me, placing it in my hair. “He’s right,” Cole mutters. “Grass green, beautifully blazing back at him. Wonderfully watching with those eyes.”

            I blink. “My eyes?”

            “Your eyes. They _are_ very nice. Just the color he thinks of when he looks at you, and when he looks away.” Cole answers, settling back into a sitting position. “Grinning at him with her grass green glassy eyes and her sunshine smile, smelling like earth and rose. It keeps the bad song away, makes him not want the thing he should hate.”

            “You should write poetry, Cole,” I tell him, heat rising to my cheeks. I’ve never known how to take a compliment, and I'm not sure whose thoughts Cole is prying into. “I’m going to go check with the merchants who have been arriving. What are the odds they’ll have a copy of ‘Tale of the Champion’?”

            Solas watches my leg as I stand, then frowns when I keep my weight off of it. “Fiona-”

            “I bet my ass that Varric’s friend is going to be the Champion. I mean, who else could it be?” I ask before Solas can continue.

            “How can you do that?” Cole asks. “How can you ‘bet your ass’?”

            Hearing Cole say it with such confusion and innocence has me laughing again. “You can’t. Or rather, you shouldn’t.”

            “Fiona, you should let me take another look at your injury again,” Solas says, rising to his feet gracefully.

            When Varric’s potions had worn off, I couldn’t remember much from getting sliced open at all. Cassandra made an off-hand comment about how I confused people for food, but the meaning was lost on me. At any rate, I’d woken up with stitches and feeling rather horrible.

“I’m fine, Solas. Really.” I protest.

            “I thought I wasn’t allowed to say that.” Blackwall’s voice makes me turn my head to see him approaching.

            I flash a grin at him, ignoring the way my breath picks up. “Double-standards. They’re wonderful things.” I may have actually been avoiding him recently. I’m not sure why, other than I have no idea how to talk about what happened. I mean, we kissed. It shouldn’t be a cause to avoid him. I’ve kissed other people before. It all went to shit not long afterwards… Oh. I suppose that’s what I’m worried about.

            Blackwall just chuckles and shakes his head. “Are you fine enough to walk the ramparts? You should see our defenses.”

            “Fine enough,” I answer before waving to Solas and Cole. Solas purses his lips and waves me off with a sigh. “If my leg hurts again, I’ll come see you.” I assure him.

            “Hm,” Solas answers, but he seems slightly appeased.

            I try not to limp too much as Blackwall and I head to the nearest flight of stairs. I manage the first few steps before my eyes start stinging.

            “My lady?”

            “I’m just going to be a little slow,” I say tightly.

            But then Blackwall wraps his arm around my waist and helps me up another step. I try not to lean on him too much, but we manage to make it to the top.

            “You should really get Solas to look at that again,” Blackwall still hasn’t released my waist, and without the stabbing pain, I feel a little warm all over.

            “I’m sure it’s healing just fine,” I tell him as we move to the edge of the ramparts.

            There’s a sheer drop on the other side. I’ve avoided walking the ramparts as much as I could. I don’t mind climbing a tree or scrambling on top of big rocks. But plummets to a certain death tend to make me a little nervous.

            Blackwall seems to decide there’s no arguing with me and steps away, leaning against the stone that separates him and a very terrifying drop. “We’ll be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away.”

            I resist the impulse to tell him to back away. “On the other hand, it means Corypheus will be able to see us from miles away too.”

            “Let him come,” Blackwall turns to me suddenly, and the steel in his voice takes me by surprise. “I swear I’ll take the twisted bastard down myself, even if I have to die to do it.”

“Don’t talk like that, Blackwall. I’m not losing anyone to Corypheus. Especially not you,” I wrap my arms around myself, frowning.

“You can’t afford to think like that.” Blackwall tilts his head down for a moment, and I see the blue and gray eyes close before he looks at me again. “I’m a soldier, no different than any soldier lost at Haven.”

I blink at him. The mood’s completely shifted to one that’s serious, heavy, weighing both of us down. Even the air feels thin. “Well I didn’t want to lose any of them, either,” I say, my eyebrows pulling together.

            “This is a war. People will follow you, and many will fall.” Blackwall tells me bluntly.

            “I didn't ask them to. I don’t want them to,” I snap as my temper flares. I take a step forward and try to ignore the way my leg twinges.

            “You are the leader of the Inquisition now. People _will_ die fighting in your name.” Blackwall’s voice is still level, but his eyes are hard.

            I’m clenching my jaw so tightly I can feel my head start to pound. This is so similar to the conversation I had with Leliana just yesterday. “So what do you want me to say? _Yes, people are going to be killed because of me. I accept it_? Because I don’t. I don’t accept it, no matter what you say. I’m going to do every damn thing I can to keep people safe from Corypheus.”

            Something flashes across Blackwall’s face before he sighs. “You can’t win a war without men giving their lives.”

            Every time I go to the war room with Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine, I have to calculate in my head the risks of sending scouts here, or some spies there. I have a list of names of those who died at Haven hanging next to the door to my room. I know Blackwall’s right, and feel the flash of anger ebbing away. It's replaced with just... exhaustion.

I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, saying quietly, “I’m going to try. I have to try, Blackwall. I know I must sound naïve, but I would face Corypheus alone if it meant no one else would be hurt.”

“I know you would.” Blackwall answers just as softly. His eyes are kinder now too, and he raises a soft, gloved hand to my face. I forget that breathing is necessary for living. “You stayed behind in Haven. You were ready to sacrifice yourself for everyone else.”

            “I really didn’t think it over too much,” I attempt to joke, giving him a small smile.

“When I heard, I wasn’t sure that I would ever see you again, my lady.” Blackwall leans in closer. “I told you before I thought you were honorable, but what you did…”

“Was impulsive. And a little stupid. But it worked.” I whisper.

“It worked.” Blackwall agrees. “And you lived.” His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and a shiver runs down my spine.

            That’s it.

I press my lips against his, light and soft.

            He really does smell like apples and wood chips, and-  _oh._ He tastes like apples, too. I don’t remember the last time I kissed someone like this, mouth moving slowly, tongue sweeping, all but melting against him.

            I’m holding onto his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric at his sides as the kiss turns into something more. He pulls me closer to him, if that’s even possible. I must be molded into his body, warmth running over my skin, and-

            Blackwall pulls away, dropping one hand from my cheek and the other from where it had rested on my hip and held me to him only moments before. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

            What? “What?” It takes me a moment to get air back into my lungs. We’re still standing close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest.

            “This—whatever you want this to be—is impossible.” Blackwall’s eyes are stormy now.

            “What?” I say again, this time even less intelligently.

            “I want to give in. Maker knows how much I wish I could.”

            “Blackwall, what’s wrong?” I ask, searching his face for anything. He seems… guilty? Conflicted? But why?

            “You’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste.” Blackwall turns away from me, but I hear another voice saying, _“You’re a Lady Trevelyan, daughter born into nobility.”_ It stings again. He is not someone I like to think of.

            “And… the reason that this—us—is impossible… it’s because I’m the Inquisitor?” My voice sounds far away. I feel like an idiot. One moment he’s kissing me, and the next he’s saying that we shouldn’t be?

            Blackwall turns to face me, though the distance between us speaks volumes. “You’re the leader of the Inquisition. Even now there are people flocking to your banner, ready to serve—to die.”

“I know that!” I bite out, feeling my face contort. “And—what? I don’t even know what _this_ is between us, but because I’m the Inquisitor, you want to kiss me and walk away? I’m not even the Herald of Andraste. I never asked to be. I don’t _want_ them to believe that I am.”

“But they do.” Blackwall points back into Skyhold. “It’s too late to go back. Whoever you were is gone.”

            “I’m still me.” I say quietly, but I can feel the glare I’m giving him, coming from the part of me that is so angry I could cry, or scream. But I don’t. “It’s just that no one else can see it.” It’s always a title. Never me. I’m not Fee, but someone else who everyone needs me to be.

Blackwall looks away from me. “We’re both bound by duty. Our lives aren’t ours to live.”

Some bullshit reason that is. I take a deep breath and find my composure. “I understand, Warden. You don’t need to explain,” I answer shortly. It’s easy to push him away—it’s something I’ve learned to do. I don’t need to cling, or to ask for answers. I just want to leave, and not to think about the way he kissed me before.

            “I wish this were simple, believe me, I do. But it’s not.”

            I’m already walking away, attempting not to limp off pitifully as my throat tightens. The stairs make my leg burn and I crumple on the steps, sitting on the cold stone and tucking my chin to my chest. The grass crown Cole gave me slides off my head and lands on my feet.

 

            _“You’re a Lady Trevelyan, daughter born into nobility. Of course my parents told me to pursue you. We’re to receive more land, more power, higher standing.”_

_“So you admit to using me.”_

_“Fiona, I love you. I came to love you.”_

_“I’m nothing but a title for you to marry. I heard_ everythin _g, Neil! You and your father talking last night, when he apologized for making you part from your previous love in order to pursue me. He said it would all be worth it with the dowry money he’s soon to receive. That you would be stronger with our marriage, even if your had been reluctant to court me at first.”_

_“My father… You don’t understand. Your title would do great things for my family.”_

_“I’m not my title.”_

_“Fiona-”_

_“I’ll tell my parents our engagement is over. Don’t worry, I’ll find some excuse that won’t put you in a bad light.”_

_“How can you throw this away? I thought you loved me. I thought you cared.”_

_“Don’t. Don’t you dare, Neil. You know how much I care for you, and you used that against me.”_

_“Then don’t break the engagement off. Marry me.”_

_“No.”_

_“Please don’t do this.”_

_“This is over, Neil. We’re done.”_

            Lady Trevelyan. Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor.

            I pull myself to my feet, grinding my teeth together as I stagger down the remaining steps. I have the title, and I have the responsibility. I became the Inquisitor because I want to stop Corypheus and keep these people- now my people- safe. And I’m going to do it. There’s not a chance for anything else, or anything more, while I’m a title and a symbol. And I certainly don't have time to mope. I head toward the great hall to see if Leliana has any updates on contacting Empress Celene.         


	17. Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            It makes sense now. The reason his face looks so pale sometimes, why his hands will shake occasionally when he hands me a report, or why he’s always rubbing his temples like he’s got a headache. Lyrium withdrawal.

            The tiny blue bottles sit on the table that separates us, and I manage to say, “Cullen, if this could kill you-”

            “It hasn’t yet.” The Commander remains hunched over, his shoulders sagging. “After Kirkwall, I couldn’t—I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it.” He straightens, raising his honey brown eyes to mine. “But I would not put the Inquisition at risk.”

            “I know.” I tell him quietly.

            Cullen rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I have asked Cassandra to… watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

            “Your ability to lead?” I sound slightly horrified, and Cullen’s expression tightens.

            “I understand if you now have doubts. I can only-”

            “Cullen, I don’t have doubts about your ability as a Commander. I can’t think of anyone else who’d be better at leading the Inquisition troops. I mean, you have the most effective way of yelling at them to get their asses moving.” I shake my head, running a hand through my hair.  “I’m worried about _you_. I’ve been noticing that something was wrong since even before Val Royeaux—are you feeling worse?”

            He lets out a small sigh that almost escapes my notice, but I can clearly see he’s relieved I’m not about to ask for his resignation. Maker, I can’t imagine not having Cullen at the War Table meetings, arguing with me about tactics, or shouting at the recruits to raise their shields higher.

            “I can endure it.” Cullen answers firmly, though the absence of color in his cheeks and the bags under his eyes make me think, _enduring is not the same as living._

For a moment, I feel a flash of anger toward the Templar Order, toward the chantry. I want to stockpile all the lyrium in Thedas and burn it. It would probably do nasty things to the air, and may or may not explode in my face, but practicality frequently lacks in my daydreams.

            I realize I haven’t said anything to Cullen and blurt, “Tea helps.”

            He stares tiredly.

            “With headaches, I mean.” I clarify. The mark still makes my head hurt on a regular basis, but Solas has provided various techniques to deal with them, including tea. Though he hates tea. It’s heretical—tea is better than the Maker _and_ Andraste.

            Maybe I’m the heretical one.

            “I… uh. I’ll have to try it.” Cullen says slowly, almost confusedly.

            “It helps to steep elfroot in it. Just not too much, or you’ll be in a daze for a few hours. When I tried it in Haven I apologized to a wall after accidentally walking into it.” I babble.

            Cullen chuckles. “I remember.”

            “You _saw_ that?” I gasp incredulously.

            The Commander nods, the scarred corner of his mouth pulling up into a lopsided smile. “And right after, you saw a stray cat outside of the chantry and chased it through Haven calling for it.”

            “Balls.” I cringe. “In my defense, I really _wouldn’_ t have named him Mister Snugglesworth.”

            That gets a full laugh out of Cullen, and I can’t help but join in making fun of my own idiocy as well. It was probably quite a view for the recruits, watching the so-called Herald of Andraste run around Haven screaming ‘ _SNUGGLESWORTH, COME HERE’_ at the top of her lungs.

            “Granted,” I say between giggles, “I probably would’ve done the same even if I hadn’t been in a haze, but, you know…”

            “It seems you have particularly strong reactions to elfroot. You were… rather incapacitated with the old healing potions,” Cullen muses, his voice still light and warm.

            I wrinkle my nose at him. “I’ve been told I made a complete fool of myself. It seems I do a wonderful job of that.”

            “You were…” Cullen rubs the back of his neck, obviously searching for an adequate word.

            “Ridiculous? Loud? A one-woman comedy act?”

            “Amusing,” Cullen finishes.

            “A one-woman comedy act it is,” I say, and we grin at each other. I’m more than relieved that the serious mood has lifted. “Cat chasing and elfroot aside, Cullen, thank you for telling me.” I say, already deciding to bring him tea tomorrow morning.

            Cullen clears his throat and tells me, “The Inquisition’s army must always take priority. Should anything happen… I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment.”

            “You’re a priority, too, Cullen.” I point at him as sternly as I can. “That means no skipping meals—yes, I heard from Leliana and she knows everything—and drinking elfroot tea even if it leaves you talking to Skyhold’s walls.”

            There’s the ghost of a smile playing on his lips now. “Thank you.” Cullen says softly.

            I wave to him as I leave the room he’s set up as his office and only make it a few steps on the ramparts before a messenger tells me Varric’s contact has arrived and is waiting in the northwest tower.

            Directionally challenged as ever, I have to ask the messenger where the tower is before I can limp off towards it. How do people know cardinal directions like that? It’s a mystery to me.

            When I push open the door to the part of the tower that opens back up to Skyhold, there’s a sword pointing in my face.

            “Can’t I make it a week without someone trying to kill me?” I breathe irritably, wondering if I could step back and slam the door before the sword slices off my nose.

            “Broody, put the sword down. This is the Inquisitor.” Varric’s voice complains lazily. It’s as if he’s not concerned for my nose in the slightest.

            The elf holding the sword glares at me for a few seconds from under snow white hair before deciding he doesn’t want to impale me and sheathes his weapon. White lines are etched into his light brown skin, a scowl on his face. I’m more than a bit intimidated.

            “We’re just a little jumpy from our travels, Varric,” a light, feminine voice explains.

            Varric and a short woman appear from around the corner of the tower, a baby sleeping in the woman’s arms.

            “Inquisitor,” the elf mutters in a gravelly voice.

            “Uh. Fee. My name’s Fee.” I stick my hand out to him, which might not be a great idea since he was ready to chop of my body parts only a few moments before.

            The elf considers me for a moment before shaking my hand quickly. “Fenris,” he answers, dark green eyes watching me suspiciously.

            “And I’m Varric’s contact,” the woman says, full lips smiling. “Jemma Hawke, at your service.”

            “She’s also known as the Champion of Kirkwall,” Varric adds, looking at the woman with a mixture of sadness and pride. “I figured Hawke would have some friendly advice about Corypheus.”

            Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall. And Fenris… Andraste’s ass, he was in the tale as well! Maker, they’re practically legends.

            Cassandra is _so_ going to kill Varric.

            “I’ll take any advice on the subject, friendly or not,” I reply. “How do you know about him?”

            “I’ve fought him before. All three of us have, actually.” Hawke uses her head to gesture to Varric and Fenris, her dark hair falling softly around her face. “Though considering you’ve already dropped half a mountain on the bastard, I’m not sure what I can tell you would help much.”

            I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe you can provide another mountain?”

            Hawke snorts, and the baby stirs in her arms for a moment. “Fenris, will you hold Helen for a moment?” She passes the tiny girl off, where the baby nestles against Fenris’s chest before settling. When he’s holding a baby and not a sword, he doesn’t look half as scary. “Since I’m currently out of mountains to give…”

            “I won’t turn down hearing any scraps of information you may know,” I tell her.

            “Well, bad news is Corypheus should be dead but definitely isn’t. Other news, which actually is more bad news, is that the time I fought him, the Grey Wardens were trying to hold Corypheus. The bastard had used his connection to the darkspawn to somehow influence the Wardens."

            Varric takes a swig from a flask. “There’s never any good news with you, Hawke.”

            “That would be an understatement,” Fenris mutters.

            “Tell me about it.” The woman’s blue eyes sharpen. “If the Wardens have disappeared, they could have fallen under his control again.”

            “Shit. That… is not what I really wanted to hear. Was it too much to hope the Wardens had gone vacationing in Seheron on something?” I take a deep breath. “If that _is_ what happened to the Wardens, is this influence reversible?”

            “I’m not entirely sure. But I’m hoping we can find out.” Hawke brushes her hair away from her face while she speaks. “I’ve got a friend in the Wardens. He was investigating something unrelated for me. His name is Stroud. The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks. Since then… nothing.”

            “Corypheus could definitely qualify as corruption in the ranks.” Varric points out, slipping his cask away. “Did Stroud disappear with them?”

            “No. He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood.” Hawke’s eyes flick to Fenris and the baby, Helen, before coming back to me. “I can accompany you there to meet him, and hopefully we can find out what’s been going on.”

            “Hawke,” Fenris says in a low voice. “We’ve talked about this.”

            “Corphyeus is my responsibility,” Hawke answers firmly. “I thought I’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.”

            Fenris hisses something in a language I recognize as Tevene before the baby in his arms opens large, green eyes that very obviously match Fenris’s. The angry Tevene switches to a softer tone as he mumbles to the little girl.

            “I don’t think finding Stroud will be too dangerous,” Hawke says, thought I’m not sure if she’s directing it toward me or Fenris. “If we leave tomorrow, the journey there shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

            I nod, though Fenris looks extremely displeased. “Traveling with fewer people will help to attract less attention. There’s a Warden among our ranks that would probably like to go with us,” I say. That means I have to find Blackwall. And talk to him. I’ve been quite willing to avoid him since our discussion just yesterday.

            “I’m going with you, Hawke.” Varric puts in. “Broody, you’re going to stay here with Sunshine, right?”

            Fenris glares at Varric. “I would not put my daughter in danger.” He then shifts his angry gaze to Hawke, and I can see why Varric calls him ‘Broody’. “Hawke, you shouldn’t do this.”

            “I’ll be fine, Fenris.” Hawke puts her hand on his arm. They make a beautiful pair, even if Fenris still looks quite grumpy.

            I still can’t believe I’m actually talking with Hawke. It occurs to me I haven’t said anything extremely stupid yet. _Give me another ten minutes, and I’m sure I will._

            “You’re welcome to stay in Skyhold,” I tell Fenris honestly. “I’ve heard- uh, read- that you’re skilled with a sword. I mean, unless Varric made that part up. Not that he would! I mean, you were extremely intimidating when you were holding me at sword point… That was meant to be a compliment.”

            I didn’t even need ten minutes. It’s almost impressive how quickly I can make things awkward.

            Fenris just continues to give me a grumpy look and I wave my hands around in the air. “Please, feel free to stay here and help train the recruits. That’s what I’m trying to say. Cullen’s always looking for people who can give decent demonstrations.”

            “And Helen would be safer here.” Hawke raises her eyebrows, though she seems to be almost asking a question. She’s leaving the decision to Fenris.

            Fenris makes a noncommittal noise and Hawke turns to me with a grin. “That’s a yes,” she explains. “Will you be ready to leave at dawn?”

            Dawn. I hate mornings. “I may not be entirely awake, but I’ll be at the drawbridge at sunrise.” I answer.

            Helen makes a little cooing noise and I can’t help but to grin at her. Hawke brushes her fingers through the black hair on Helen’s head, and Fenris’s sour expression softens.

            I feel like I’m intruding on a family scene, and leave the tower quietly. As much as I don't want to, I need to find Blackwall. I’m also betting that before the night’s over, I’ll have to keep Cassandra from murdering Varric.

            Oh, the fun never ends.


	18. Flashbacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outskirts of Crestwood.

            “Duck!” I shout, and Blackwall hits the ground just as I loose an arrow, impaling his attacker in the eye.

            “Fee,” Hawke calls, and I drop and roll just as a sword swings over me. The Venatori who was about to remove my head is suddenly pushed back with a massive rock that rose up from the ground.

            I love mages.

            Clambering back to my feet, another Venatori charges at me. I prepare to fire again, but Varric shoots the woman in the neck. She falls right in front of me, and I return my attention to where Blackwall’s throwing off one Venatori with his shield as a second is about to flank him.

            My arrow buries itself in the flanking Venatori’s armor, but he doesn’t stop. A green barrier appears over Blackwall just as the Venatori lands a blow on Blackwall’s back. _Thank you, Solas._

Varric and I fire at the same time, his arrow hitting the Venatori’s armor, while mine buries itself in the back of his head just under the line of his helmet.

            Blackwall finishes off the last one, and I scan the area, making sure there aren’t any more coming from the trees.

            “I was beginning to think our travels had been too uneventful. Everyone in one piece?” I ask breathlessly when I don’t see any more rampaging lunatics.

            “Hawke,” Varric’s voice makes me turn my head.

            The mage is clutching her staff tightly, her eyes unfocused as her shoulders heave. “I didn’t- I didn’t-”

            “She’s going into shock.” Solas says quietly as I hurry over, slinging my bow over my shoulder.

            Hawke shudders as Solas places a hand on her cheek. Pale green light shimmers from his hand and the short woman cringes away from him, her eyelashes fluttering.

            “Fenris,” she croaks, clearly holding herself up by her staff.

            “He’s back in Skyhold with Helen,” I tell her gently, my eyes flicking to Solas for some explanation.

            “We were fighting- I couldn’t get to there in time.” Hawke’s staff falls away from her hand and she crumples. I manage to catch her, sinking to the ground with the mage. “I was coming from Hightown, but we were too late. Th- they’re all dead.”

            Varric and Solas kneel next to us while Blackwall keeps his sword out, keeping watch for anything else. “We were attacked by Venatori, Hawke,” Varric says. “We’re in Crestwood. Not Kirkwall.”

            Solas reaches with a glowing hand again to Hawke, this time pressing his palm against her forehead.

            “You’re safe. We’re all safe.” I tell her, not knowing what else to do.

            Hawke’s blue eyes are staring ahead, empty. Solas’s magic flares and she blinks rapidly, gasping for air.

            “How are you feeling?” Solas asks clinically as Hawke sits up slowly. I let go of her arms, watching as she breathes deeply, one hand pressed to her chest.

            “I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse.” Hawke answers quietly, and we both stand—Hawke somehow gracefully while I make a complaining noise when my knees pop.

            Solas is still watching the Champion closely. “Does this happen often?”

            “More often that I’d like.” Hawke picks her staff up again, her voice light. “I’m fine now—no reason to worry.”

            Varric claps Hawke on the shoulder. “Of course not. There’s no need for anyone to worry about you when you’ve got the trusty dwarf around.”

            I realize that he doesn’t want Hawke to be pressed further.

            “Let’s find somewhere make camp for the night. A little away from here,” I say quickly, glancing at the Venatori bodies. “No one’s hurt? Everyone can make it for a few more minutes?” I ask the party, but I’m mostly concerned about Hawke.

            I get nods in response and take the lead, heading towards a rocky hill.

            “Damn Venatori are everywhere now,” Blackwall mutters as I find a gentle enough slope up.

            “Corypheus is either an excellent recruiter, or people are just really desperate to join a crazy Tevinter cult nowadays.” Varric replies.

            “I’m sure it’s the name. ‘Venatori’ just sounds so intimidating.” Hawke tries to joke, though her voice still sounds a little shaky.

            I look over my shoulder to say, “We could try renaming them.” I drop my voice to a growl. “ _They’re the followers of Corypheus, feared throughout Thedas… the The Fluffy Nuggy Wuggies.”_

            Hawke chuckles and I focus my attention on the hill we’re climbing again. “I would join a cult if it was named the Nuggy Wuggies. Who wouldn’t?” Hawke asks. “Blackwall, tell me you could resist joining a cult that sounded as adorable as that.”

            “I’d only join if membership included a free stuffed nug.” Blackwall rumbles deeply.

            I snort as the banter continues. It seems no one is inclined to press Hawke further about what happened. We reach a clearing toward the top of the hill. “How’s this?”

            “Defensible,” Blackwall answers practically.

            “No giant spiders that I see.” Hawke adds, and I nod at our shared hatred of arachnids.

            “Let’s make camp, then. If there are any bugs, I’ll be sure to squish them before they get to you.” Varric winks at Hawke.

            The mage grins. “This is why you’re my favorite dwarf.”

            “A valiant knight—a spider killer extraordinaire,” I throw in dramatically as Blackwall and I begin setting out bedrolls and unloading everyone’s packs.

            After an uncomfortable first day on the road with Blackwall, the last few days felt... almost back to normal. Teasing, laughing, joking, working side by side. If I found that I was thinking back to kissing him, thinking back to how hurt I felt, then I reminded myself that I was the Inquisitor before anything else—and that meant I didn’t have time for… whatever Blackwall and I could have been.

            The sun’s setting when Varric builds a fire and Hawke and Solas work on putting wards up around our little campsite. I’m responsible for cooking dinner, and I make something that’s passable as ram stew. Barely passable.

            “Bright Eyes, you might have some rocks in here.”

            “Really?” Blackwall leans over to look into Varric’s bowl. “I thought mine had a spare eyeball.”

            “Everyone’s a critic.” I mutter. “While you all bond over my _wonderful_ stew, I’m going to go wash up. Feel free to continue complaining once I’m out of earshot.”

            “I don’t think even _you_ could call this ‘wonderful’,” Solas points out, his lips quirking up.

            “Traitor.” I glare at him as I grab the beloved bar of soap from my pack. “I should have let you lot go hungry,” I, ever mature, stick my tongue out before heading toward the nearby stream.

            The water's not even knee deep, and I do a quick sweep of my surroundings before peeling off my clothes. My hair is a knotted mess of red and brown waves, but I try to wash it before scrubbing all the dirt off my skin.

            I fall over trying to put on my breeches, but successfully pull on my shirt before I head back to camp with my jacket under and the bar of soap.

            Thankfully, no one mentions the ram stew when I return. Solas is gone, and Varric sits with Hawke at the fire, talking quietly.

            I use my fingers to comb through my hair, folding my jacket as I tell Blackwall, “Josephine loaned me this soap, and I’ve never loved her more. I owe her a bottle of Antivan brandy when we get back to Skyhold.” It smells like roses, which is about a thousand times better than dirt and Venatori blood.

“We should be able to make it to Crestwood village tomorrow for supplies, and maybe even make it to Stroud before nightfall,” Blackwall says roughly.

His tone takes me by surprise for a moment before I look up and see the way he’s watching at me. His eyes are dark, and I feel my cheeks turn warm as my hand drops from my hair. “Right.” How did I get to be standing so close to him? “I heard that there are rifts in Crestwood, though. If there are any near our path, we’ll need to set aside some time to close them.”

            “We shouldn’t keep Stroud waiting for too long.” Blackwall tells me, though his voice is low. Maker, I love his voice. A shiver runs down my spine as I look from his lips back to his eyes. 

            “Right.” I say again. What is it with me and stupidly repeating words? _Say something intelligent, Fee!_ “Um.” _Good job._

            “My lady-”

            “Blackwall-”

We both cut ourselves off. The camp is completely quiet—Varric and Hawke must’ve stopped talking.

            “I’ll gather more firewood.” Blackwall says suddenly, turning and leaving me staring after him and wondering what the hell just happened.

            As he disappears from view, Varric calls, “Bright Eyes, how can you let Hero go when he’s giving you that dark, tortured look?”

            “What?” I turn toward the fire and see Varric and Hawke staring back at me, both wearing wicked smiles. I’m definitely an unflattering shade of red right now. “Blackwall?”

            “I would ask if it was one-sided, but seeing the way you’re all flustered now—it’s not.” Varric pats the ground next to him as an invitation.

            I resume combing through my hair as I plop down in front of the fire, trying not to look Varric in the eye. “It’s not really got any sides,” I say evasively. It’s true enough. I have no idea what’s going on between us.

            “Oh, he was definitely checking out all of your sides right then.” Hawke wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I mean, I was, too. Your hair’s all wet and mussed, your shirt’s clinging to your curves… Ooh, you even smell like roses! Hot." 

            Day made. The beautiful Champion of Kirkwall just complimented me. 

“Hawke,” Varric grins, “you’re as bad as Rivaini.”

            “I’m offended,” Hawke scoffs. “I'm merely analyzing our friend's sex appeal. Isabela would’ve referenced curling toes and groping grinders by this point.”

            I bury my face in my hands. “Andraste’s tits, there’s not even a need to reference those things!”

            Varric and Hawke both laugh. “I’m just curious as to whether or not you two are still at the 'intense stares' phase or if you’ve actually talked to each other about the way you feel,” Varric tells me.

            I sigh and raise my head. “There isn’t anything to talk about. He- I- we... Shit. I’m just going to focus on being the Inquisitor.”

            “Ah. So you crushed Hero’s heart.” Varric prompts.

            “No!” I gasp indignantly. “He’s the one who told me we were both bound by duty or something like that. I don’t know. It was definitely an excuse for not wanting to be with me. Probably because… well, because I _am_ the Inquisitor.”

            Varric and Hawke share a look.

“Your ability to weasel out information from people is still wonderful, Varric.” Hawke shakes her head. “Fee, from the look he was giving you, it seems like he’s making excuses for himself more than anything.”

“I highly doubt that.” I mumble before pointing from the dwarf to the woman. “If either of you breathe a word of this, I’ll ask Leliana to have you both assassinated. Either that or make the Herald’s Rest charge you double.”

Varric waves his hand at my threats. “Look, Bright Eyes—you and Hero have been dancing around each other since you found him at that lake. I’m not going to forget your whole ‘you’re oddly charming for a man I found wandering in the forest’ line.”

            Hawke guffaws and I grimace. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up again.”

            “My point is—you and Hero obviously have something. And I may or may not have bet against Dorian on this, so…”

            “Varric, please tell me you’re joking.” I groan.

            “It’s a whole lot of coin,” Varric says innocently.

            I rub my temples, feeling another headache come on again from the mark. “It’s not going to happen. I’m the Inquisitor before I’m anything else. At least that’s what Blackwall sees. And what I think is necessary for the time being.”

            “Titles are just titles,” Hawke cuts in before Varric can bring up his bet again. “And while Thedas needs you to be the Inquisitor, you’re still Fee. I can tell you from experience—it’s not easy to fall in love when the world’s breaking apart around you. But if you find someone who reminds you that love is possible, who reminds you of who you are, who makes you feel like there’s still ground beneath your feet and a future in worth fighting for… don’t let that pass you by.”

            “Is that Fenris?” I ask her with a small smile.

            Her eyes sparkle as she nods. “That’s Fenris.”

            Varric whistles. “Hawke, I think you should take over writing romances for me.”

            Hawke elbows him in the ribs. “Don’t ever tell Isabela. She’ll think I’ve gone soft on her.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Varric answers breezily.

            “Liar,” Hawke and I say at the same time before laughing together.


	19. Tipsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crestwood.

            The Crestwood forward camp is actually a very fun place to be. Mostly because Scout Greer has a lute, and ale came in with the supply wagons. And I may or may not have drunk half a mug of ale. Which is enough to have me snort-laughing and feeling pretty great.

            I mean, I’m not being loud, and I’m definitely not drunk. But I’m happy not to be throwing up, which is my typical reaction to alcohol.

            Hawke and I are cackling over a story that ended in her waking up hung-over and missing her pants on the Storm Coast.

            Varric and Blackwall are drinking with the scouts as well, and Solas is already sleeping in one of the tents, off in the fade.

            We all needed a break. After meeting with Stroud, we know we need to get to Skyhold and tell Leliana about scouting the Western Approach. And we also have to track down a homicidal mayor who ran off after we closed the rift over the lake and discovered the truth about Crestwood’s past.

            We all needed a drink, too.

            “I love this song!” I gasp as Scout Greer starts playing _My Bonny Lass._

            “Me too!” Hawke shouts at me, and immediately begins singing, changing ‘lass’ to ‘ass’.

            I break into a fresh wave of giggles as Hawke pulls me to my feet. _“And ahoy, ahoy, my bonny ass, we’ll sail away to a brand new day!”_ I caterwaul happily, spinning around in a circle with Hawke.

            Varric’s chuckling, and Hawke grabs the requisition officer, Nettle, and dances with him. Nettle looks half-drunk, tripping over his feet but looking delighted at the same time.

            I belt out another chorus, clapping my hands as the smoke from the campfire blows toward me and I run from it.

            Scout Chester is dancing with us next, then more and more scouts and officers are joining in around the fire.

            _“So away, away, my bonny ass, we’ll take ship and leave for the open sea!”_ We’re all bellowing it, notes dissolving into screams and laughs.

            Hawke’s grinning from ear to ear, and I can almost forget the way she wakes up sweating and crying into the night.

            I can see why Fenris was worried about her traveling with us. She can act like she’s fine—like she’s doing now. But she has flashbacks, has nightmares, about other times.

            _“Come my love, my love, my bonny ass, we’ll disappear and never look back.”_ Hawke screeches with the others, winking at me like she’s never had a problem in her life.

            She’s very brave.

But she also has the singing voice of a dying frog.

            I beam at her as I flip my head back and forth to the messy, garbled beat of the song, dancing around in a little circle waving my arms like a bird attempting to take flight.

            _“And ahoy, ahoy, my bonny ass, we’ll sail away to a brand new day!”_

            Greer strums the last chord on the lute and we burst into applause. Someone shouts that they’re going to find the other casks of ale and there’s a cheer of approval.

            My head’s spinning as I stumble, just a little bit, as I try to find somewhere to sit. But I’m definitely still sober. Not drunk in the slightest.

            “Why don’t you take a seat, my lady,” Blackwall’s voice says, though it’s definitely not a suggestion. There’s a hand on my shoulder that leads me to a tree stump a little away from the fire at the edge of the tents.

            “I was looking for one. Seats, that is.” I rub the bridge of my nose and blink up at Blackwall. His hair looks even darker when the sun’s down. Probably because it’s darker outside. What a novel thought.

            I tilt my head up to the sky, and the stars twinkle back down at me. “I swear they look different.” I purse my lips together.

            “What does?” I feel Blackwall sit down next to the tree stump.

            Pointing up at the sky, I say, “They do. The stars were brighter in Ostwick. I know because I looked at them a lot. I like them. They were very shiny. I like shiny.”

            Blackwall laughs quietly, but doesn’t say anything.

            “Maybe it’s because of the breach.” I suggest glumly. “Stupid Corypheus and making the stars shine darker.” I frown, finally looking down and meeting Blackwall’s eyes. They’re the color of a storm. Like a storm at sea. Speaking of the sea- _“Ahoy, ahoy, my bonny ass.”_ I chant.

            “How much did you have to drink?” Blackwall rumbles, though he looks amused.

            “Half a mug!” I wave my hands around in the air. “And I’m not even drunk! Or throwing up!”

            Blackwall snorts. “Half a mug. Truly impressive. Not that I’m complaining. I didn’t pack a spare pair of boots.”

I make a noncommittal noise and see Hawke downing another mug of ale. She is definitely not a lightweight.

            Sighing enviously, I realize my shoulder is brushing against Blackwall’s. Stupid Warden giving me all those stupid intense looks that make me go insane.

            “I think I should try to get some sleep.” I mutter, standing and swaying. When I reach out to find something to steady myself on, I grasp an arm. Blackwall’s arm. “Must be really tired.”

            “Of course. Just tired,” Blackwall assures me, though I can sense that he’s making fun of me.

            “I can go get _actually_ drunk and throw up on your boots.” I say menacingly. “Then you’d have to walk back to Skyhold barefoot. Because I’m not carrying you.”

            The Warden chuckles. “Considering you’re having problems walking on your own-”

            “I am not!” I attempt to let go of his arm and quickly grab it again when my head spins. “Well, shit. I’m just… tipsy. Not drunk.”

            “Of course.” Blackwall says again, giving me that white-tooth flashing grin I love. “To your tent?”

            I nod, and the world slides out of focus. “Oh.” I groan, pressing my forehead against Blackwall’s shoulder.

            “Everything spinning?”

            “No,” I retort. It’s not spinning. Just… sliding.

            I take a deep breath and smell the woodchips that are just so _Blackwall._ I just stand there, too dizzy to do anything else.

            “My lady?”

            “Right. Walking. Tents. Sleep.” I mumble into his shoulder, taking a step away from him.

            It leaves us standing chest-to-chest, my chin tipped up where I could just-

            I look away quickly, knowing where thoughts like that will get me.

            “I hope you can forgive me for pushing you away.” Blackwall’s voice is low and gentle.

            “I-” _don’t know what to say._ “It’s fine. We’re fine. Don’t—don’t worry about it.” I try to smile, forcing my eyes to crinkle around the edges so it will look more realistic. _I’m fine._

            “No. I owe you an explanation.”

            I blink at him, trying to make my eyes focus. “You gave me one. You said it was because… I’m the Inquisitor. Because we’re at war, and we have our roles to play.” The words sting even though they’re coming from my mouth. “Whoever I was before… that part of me is gone.” Maker, I hate that the most. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say quickly when I realize my eyes are filling with tears. No way am I about to start crying in front of him.

            I stumble toward the tents, not even glancing back as I push the flaps open and sink down onto a bedroll. I may have actually tripped just a bit in the process.

            My thoughts flip back and forth between Blackwall, and _My Bonny Lass_. And I’d prefer having neither in my head at the moment.

            It’s not much later that Hawke slips into the tent and flops down next to me. “I saw you walking off with the rugged Grey Warden. Did you two stare at each other intensely, or actually have some fun?” She whispers, lighting a candle in the corner of the tent with a snap of her fingers.

            I prop myself up on my elbow. “Neither.”

            “Well, that’s less exciting than I hoped.” Hawke pouts dramatically, pulling a brush from her bag and running it through her hair.

            “Tell me about it. Not that I’m helping.” I roll over onto my stomach again, and my head spins. Oh, shit. I’m going to be sick. I bury my face in the blanket.

            “What exactly is stopping you two? His excuses?” Hawke asks. She seems entirely too sober for someone who was chugging ale through the night.

            I think about it for a moment as my stomach stops turning. “Half that. And half that I… I don’t want to hear any more of his excuses. I hate talking about… _feelings._ ” I say the word with slight disgust.

            “Oh, I know. It’s why it took Fenris and I years to finally figure ourselves out.” Hawke wiggles out of her robes from where she’s sitting and pulls on an oversized shirt. “I wouldn’t recommend taking that long, though. It can be more than a little frustrating.”

            I grunt, rubbing my eyes. “Frustrating indeed.”

            The mage laughs before blowing out the candle and settling down next to me. “Next time I’ll get you drunk enough to just jump the Warden’s bones.”

            “Hawke!” I squawk, though the effect is lost as I yawn.

            “Good night, Fee.”

            “Night, Hawke.”


	20. Reports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

 

            “Gooooood morning!” I stick my head into Cullen’s office where he’s sitting, hunched over paper work.

            “It’s hardly the morning.” He answers. But when he looks up from the mess on his desk, he’s smiling.

            I shrug, entering the room and letting the door close behind me. “I just woke up, so it’s early enough for me.” I brandish a sweet roll in my hand proudly. “Which means this is still breakfast!”

            Cullen chuckles, and I hand him the pastry. His eyes return to the stack of reports in front of him, but he takes a bite. “I didn’t realize the kitchens were making these.” Cullen says appreciatively.

            “Sera’s request, apparently. She wanted something sweet. And who am I to argue with that?” I grin.

            “Sera had these made?” Cullen looks down at the roll in his hand suspiciously. “Is this… poisoned or something?”

            Rolling my eyes, I sigh, “Sera would’ve made exploding sweets if anything. Poison’s not really her style.”

            It seems to mollify Cullen and he takes another bite. “I forgot to ask you when you were giving us a report last night—do you have any idea where the Mayor of Crestwood might have gone?”

            I perch on the edge of his desk, the only spot not covered in clutter. “I can think of escape routes in the area, but I don’t know of any specific places he would’ve used as a safe house.” I can at least think of logical answers now. We’d arrived late last night from our travels and I’d given a half-assed report to the advisors before dragging myself to the softest bed in Thedas.

            Cullen nods before scribbling something down on the edge of a paper and finishing off the roll. “We’ll send our people after him as soon as possible.”

            “Any idea how long it will take Leliana’s scouts to reach the Western Approach and send back a message?” I move my toes in circles around on the stone floor as I yawn.

            “At least a week.” Cullen writes something else before sighing and running a hand through his hair. “We’ve still heard no word from Empress Celene, either.”

            “I don’t understand why you all were so opposed to just going to Val Royeaux and yelling at her as loud as we can manage.” I sniff, only half-joking at this point.

            Cullen snorts. “I’m beginning to agree with you more and more.”

            “Excellent.” I clap my hands together. “Now, we just have to convince Josephine and Leliana! This might take a lot of wine and fancy soaps.”

            “Fancy soaps?” Cullen raises his eyebrows.

            “Josephine loves them—and I’ll bet that Leliana does too.” I pull my hair to the side of my neck and lean forward. “Josephine gave me one that smells like roses!”

            “Uh—yes. It’s… very nice.” Cullen’s cheeks turn pink and I straighten up, blushing along with him. It’s probably not every day he gets girls shoving their necks in his face like idiots.

            _Great move, Fee._

“Anyway, it’s an Orlesian thing. So if they’re drunk and happy, they might approve of us screaming our way to the Empress. I mean, we _are_ trying to save her life and all of Thedas. You think Celene would be a little more receptive.” I hop off of Cullen’s desk, which isn’t much of a hop at all thanks to my long legs.

            “We’re still considered a heretical movement by some.” Cullen leans back from his desk to rub his temples.

            “Heretical my ass. We closed the breach!” I do a quick appraisal of the Commander. His face doesn’t look any gaunter than it did when I left for Crestwood, but the bags under his eyes seem deeper. “Cullen, have you not been sleeping?”

            Cullen blinks up at me. “It’s been very busy.”

            “Is it all the work, or is it being off of lyrium?” I ask bluntly.

            “I…” The Commander shakes his head. “It’s a long withstanding problem.”

            I feel my eyebrows draw together. Hawke screams at night, calling out names and wakes thinking she’s in Kirkwall—and Cullen was there as well, through it all. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were plagued by nightmares like Hawke.

            “So you stay up all night and pour over these reports instead?” I don’t want to press further about it.

            Cullen rests his elbows on his desk. “They’re never ending, it seems.”

            “Well, thankfully I can help with that.” I answer brightly, picking up a report from Corporal Vale in the Hinterlands. “How do you feel about sorting through this mess and then taking a break? We could eat more of Sera’s potentially poisoned cinnamon rolls.”

            “You don’t need to-”

            “Cullen, I’m stuck being the Inquisitor. I might as well be helpful while I’m not off Inquisitioning.”

            Cullen stares at me, his expression now turning amused as his lips pull up into that beautiful lopsided smile. “I didn’t know if you had other duties to attend to.”

            “Most of those require talking to people Josephine wants me to meet.” I grimace, then resume looking over Corporal Vale’s report. “I’d much rather be here with a pile of paper and you.”

            “I… I see. In that case-” a stack of reports are pushed toward one side of the desk and when I look up, Cullen’s back is turned, and he’s pulling up a stool.

            “Condition—if Josephine sends anyone to come looking for me, I’m hiding under your desk and you’re to say that you haven’t seen me all morning.” I tell him seriously, sitting down on the stool.

            Cullen nods. “Josephine’s wrath be my punishment if I reveal I’ve stolen you for the day, Inquisitor.”

            “I’m happily stolen, then.” I say. “ And for some reason, I thought you’d stopped calling me Inquisitor. I distinctly remember thinking ‘Finally! He’s calling me Fee!’”

            “Ah. Yes. That.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “It was when you were injured and still not… entirely recovered from the outdated healing potions.”

            “And I- what- threw a fit about being called ‘Inquisitor’?” I laugh as I pick up the first report. “I don’t understand why so few people will call me by my actual name. It’s not like the minute you say ‘Fee’, we’ll suddenly be intimate.”

            Silence.

            Shit.

            “Not intimate as in sex!” I blurt. “Not- That’s not what I meant. Intimate as in… close? Oh, screw it. It just came out wrong. It always comes out wrong!” I bury my face in my hands, feeling heat reach the tips of my ears.

            Cullen clears his throat, but I can’t look up. “I, ah, I understand your meaning.”

            “This is why Josephine always wants to be there when we meet important people. I consistently manage to put my foot in my mouth. It should be considered a skill, at this point.” I say into my palms.

            There’s that warm chuckle, and I force myself to look up. “I appreciate your directness,” he tells me, his eyes crinkling around the edges.

            I’m still cringing apologetically. “Directness is one thing. I have a tendency to just… have no filter on the things I say. I’m also terrible at lying, even if it’s for politeness. Maker, that was a terrible trait to lack when growing up a Trevelyan. One of my mother’s friends was always visiting when I was in Ostwick, and she brought along her demon spawn children with her. I almost never spoke to Lady Therese, but I was stuck with the brats for days at a time. They were nine years younger than me, and enjoyed pulling my hair when no one was looking. I once even had a shoe thrown at my face.” I shudder.

            “Anyway, Lady Therese would always say when she was leaving, ‘Oh, it was such a pleasure, Fiona! I know the children just _loved_ to see you!’ And I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, so I would just plaster a smile on my face and make a noncommittal noise. Apparently Lady Therese asked my mother after a while if I had a speech problem.”

            Cullen snorts. “I suppose you could’ve told her exactly what you thought of her children.”

            I grin at him. “This is why neither of us are the Inquisition’s diplomat, and Josephine is instead.”

            “Something I am immensely grateful for.” Cullen answers seriously.

            “Now, how exactly are we sorting through these reports?” I ask, brandishing Corporal Vale’s message.

            Cullen explains, and even calls me Fee while he’s doing so.

            It’s nice being back in Skyhold.


	21. Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            “These should hold up real nice for them until I can make replacements,” Harrit heaves.

            I waddle a few more steps before trying to adjust the pile of equipment I’m carrying. Another glove drops and I swear loudly before struggling to pick it up. An arm guard falls now, and Harrit takes it this time. “Thank you!” My voice is muffled through the haphazardly stacked pile.

            We finally make it to where the troops are running drills outside the Herald’s Rest. I half throw the equipment down on a bench and give it a glare.

            “Problems, Boss?” Bull asks innocently, sitting on the other end of the bench. Helen’s settled in the nook of his bulgingly muscular arm, her tiny hand wrapped around Bull’s finger. The giant Qunari looks downright matronly, eye patch and bare chest considered.

            “Actually, there are less than usual,” I reply. “Unless another archdemon appeared while I was with Harrit.”

            “I can’t handle another one of those,” Harrit mutters under his breath before hurrying back off towards the Undercroft.

            Bull bounces Helen, and the baby gurgles in delight. I watch them with a smile. “You know, you look like you’re an experienced nanny.”

            Bull laughs as Helen squirms and he shifts her around. “Babies are simple. I like that.”

            “Are you calling my daughter ‘simple’, Qunari?” Hawke’s voice is challenging from behind me, but when I turn, she’s smirking at us.

            “Er. In a good way.” Bull adds as Helen snuffles, demanding attention. “You want her back?”

            Hawke raises her eyebrows. “Already tired of my simple baby?”

            “No, ma’am.” Bull says quickly, patting Helen on the back surprisingly gently. “Not at all.”

            “Good.” Hawke winks at him before looking at me and gesturing to the pile of arm guards and gloves. “I’m glad you brought all of this. Fenris said your recruits were miserable shots, but watching them today brought it into a whole new perspective.”

            My eyes sweep the troops as they drill with their shields. I spot the distinctive white hair, and then the typical scowl. Next comes the muttered Tevene, followed by, “If this were a real fight, you would be dead. You keep your muscles too relaxed—you can’t react in time. Fix it. Now.” Fenris growls it before glaring at the recruit. Poor girl. It’s Miriam Bate, and she looks like she’s about to cry.

            “Hey, Inquisition!” I call. “New equipment is in! Take a breather and then come pick it up.”

            There’s a few groans of relief as some of the recruits just flop down in the grass, and Fenris stalks over to us. “They’re not as terrible as they were,” he grunts at me as a greeting.

            “Well, that’s something.” I answer. It’s probably as complimentary as he’s going to get. “Harrit made these pretty quickly, so he said if they fall apart, it’s not the recruit’s mistreatment of the equipment.” I brandish an arm guard. “He’ll work on better replacements in the meantime.”

            Fenris nods. “Unfortunately, there is not built in skill that comes with having gloves.”

            “They’ll get better.” I offer.

            “Have you seen them?” Fenris questions dryly.

            I scratch the back of my head. “Only in drills with swords and shields, actually. Hawke said they weren’t, uh, the best of the best with bows.”

            “That’s an understatement, Boss.” Bull is bobbing his knee up and down as Helen giggles in delight. “Don't get me wrong, I can’t shoot worth a damn either. But I can tell that when all the arrows miss the targets, something isn’t right.”

            The recruits start filing over to grab gloves and an arm guard, their shoulders drooping and sweat trickling from their faces in spite of the cool air.

            Fenris takes Helen from Bull with a mumbled ‘thank you’, before going back out among the recruits with his daughter in his arms.

            The targets are dragged out as I go around helping to adjust the arm guards, tightening the straps. When they’re strapped on, Fenris orders the first group of troops to shoot. Two out of ten hit the target. Their stance is off, arms bent at strange angles or too straight. Some of their elbows are drooping.

            Captain Roslyn shouts something about them not breathing before release.

            I trod over to her. “Captain, can they hold for a moment?”

            She nods before barking the order, and I slip among them, nudging their feet, rotating their bodies, tapping elbows, telling them quietly how they should stand. Miriam has the wrong eye closed, Maker bless her soul.

            It somehow continues like that, with me weaving in and out before they shoot, making adjustments and reminding them of proper positioning, until the sky grows dark and Captain Roslyn and Fenris decide training’s done for the day.

            I slouch over to where Hawke is entertaining herself by shooting little chunks of dirt up from the ground and making them dance in circles. She stands as Fenris and I approach, extending her arms to take Helen.

            The baby’s fast asleep as she’s transferred from father to mother, her dark hair mussed on the top of her head. She’s not as fat as most babies I'v seen, but her cheeks are rosy against her pale skin.

            “That was… an improvement.” Fenris tilts his head to the side as he looks at me and shakes out his arms, probably seized from all the time he spent holding Helen.

            “They at least all were hitting the target by the end.” I answer.

            “I still wouldn’t trust them to shoot anything I was within a few feet of, but there was definitely progress.” Hawke assures me.

            I glance around as the recruits shuffle off for the night, most of them into the Herald’s Rest. “Did Bull leave?”

            “Quite a while ago. He received a message from the Ben-Hassrath.” Hawke yawns. “Hopefully it’s not more news about the world ending.”

            “I would not be surprised.” Fenris grumbles.

            Hawke rolls her eyes. “You sound like you’ve been dealing with Thedas falling apart for forever.”

            Fenris just gives me this _look_ , like he’s just done with everything. “Just since I met you, Hawke.” He retorts, and I can’t help but to giggle.

            “Fee, I’ve been looking for you.” It’s Cullen who calls my name as he hurries over. “We’ve received word from scouts in the Western Approach. We’re needed in the War Room immediately.”

            "Let's go," I say, already wondering what the situation could possibly be like. 

Hawke kisses Helen on the head before handing her back to Fenris, and we fall in step next to Cullen.

            “How much would you like to bet it’s bad news?” Hawke asks. “Five silvers?”

            “Haven’t we already established there _is_ nothing other than bad news?” I try to say lightly, but my heart is racing.

            Cullen shakes his head as we hurry up the stairs to the great hall. “Whatever it is, we’ll need to act quickly. Leliana stressed that it was urgent.”

            “I thought we had about fifty urgent things to deal with already,” I wrinkle my nose as we pass through Josephine’s office. “Wasn’t that report from the Storm Coast time sensitive? And the spy’s information from Val Royeaux? Oh! Let’s not forget the weird shit in the Exalted Plains we heard about.”

            “There’s always weird shit going on,” Hawke informs me. “Varric’s made that very clear.”

            I sigh as we push the doors open to the War Room.

            “Cullen, there’s a message for you.” Leliana says immediately, handing a slip of paper to the Commander.

            “I’m assuming you’ve read it already,” Cullen answers as I step closer to him to see it.

            “Of course I have.” Leliana’s voice implies it would be ridiculous for him to think that she _wouldn’t_ read all messages sent to him.

            From Knight-Captain Rylen- _Commander Cullen, Our scouts confirmed the Inquisitor’s report: A large force of Grey Wardens has moved into the Western Approach. We need to establish a foothold out there immediately._

            I look up to Leliana. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

            “Good. We’ll have you on horseback, so go directly to the forward camp in the Western Approach without any side visits. Whatever is going on the Wardens is now our top priority.” Leliana frowns deeply, making her face appear to be much older. She really does care about the Wardens.

            “Stroud should be there. I still haven’t heard word, but he doesn’t have the same resources available to him.” Hawke crosses her arms. “He’ll be avoiding Inquisition scouts as well as everyone else. I can try to get a message to him about meeting you at your forward camp—or at least leaving information for you there.”

            “I’ll tell Blackwall. He’ll want to come with us again since this pertains to the Wardens.” I glance over the war table, looking at the little markers we have placed all over the map, symbols for troop movements, scout locations, and potential threats. “The faster we can figure out what the hell the Wardens are doing, the better.”

            “Agreed.” Hawke squeezes my arm. “I’ll come, too.”

            I think for a second about arguing. When we first walked back into Skyhold after returning from Crestwood, the relieved look on Fenris’s face made me realize how much the grumpy elf had worried—and how much reason he _had_ to worry. Hawke tried not to let it show, but fighting took its toll on her in Crestwood; forgetting where she was after an attack was over, her hands shaking, screaming herself awake at night…

            But she’s also extremely competent, and able to make her own decisions. So I just say, “Does this mean Varric is coming as well?”

            “He’ll complain about being dragged along, claiming he’s ‘too old for it’, but he’ll complain if we don’t take him, too.” Hawke laughs.

            “Supplies will be ready for you in the morning.” Josephine scribbles something down. “Good luck.”

            “We’ll need it.” I answer honestly.

            Cullen’s frowning as Hawke and I turn to leave, and he follows us out. The doors swing shut behind us and he catches my arm, letting Hawke go in front of us.

            “What’s wrong?” I ask quietly, reading the expression on his face as my own eyebrows pull together.

            He blinks at me for a few moments before letting go of my arm. “The Wardens are desperate—and we don’t know how much hold Corypheus really has over them. The Calling is one thing, but Hawke already expressed that she feared corruption among the Warden ranks.”

            “Do you have an idea of what the Wardens are doing?” I ask, searching his beautiful honey colored eyes as they worriedly meet mine.

            “No. And that’s what concerns me the most. When people grow desperate… they become fanatical, do things they wouldn’t have thought they were capable of.” Cullen tells me in a low voice. “We don't know what the Wardens might be planning, and we’re sending you without any real information.”

            “That’s why we’re going to collect some. I’ll send word as soon as we know what the Wardens are up to. Maybe they really are just on a vacation.” I give him a tentative grin.

            The worry lines etched across his forehead and between his eyes don’t go away, and I have to practically force my hands to stay at my side, my fingers wanting to trace those lines until they disappear.

            “You’re always heading into these situations.” He murmurs. “Redcliffe, Haven, this.”

            “It comes with the job.” I tease. “I’d ask for a raise, but I don’t think I’m getting paid for this at all, am I?”

            That pulls my favorite smile out of him. “We could talk to Josephine about it.”

            I wave my hand dismissively. “You’ve seen my quarters. I’m pretty sure that would be at least a year’s worth of wages in itself.”

            Cullen chuckles. “True.”

            “That ridiculous bed frame will count as my hazard pay, then.” I brush a few strands of hair out of my eyes. “We’ll come back with everyone in one piece and copious amounts of new reports for you to sort through.”

            Cullen exhales slowly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

            “You just want more reports lining your desk, don’t you?” I give a short, tired laugh. “Don't answer that. I’m starting to think you actually love paperwork.”

            “Maker’s Breath, no.” Cullen shakes his head.

            “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” I say, turning to go. “Good night, Cullen.”

            “Fee.”

            “Yes?” I face him again. I love the way he says my name now. Whether it’s jokingly when I say something stupid, or laughingly when I’m falling asleep at his desk, or loudly when he’s walking over to me, or-- I just... really like it. Is that strange?

            There’s silence as he hesitates before saying gently, “Be careful.”

            I nod, because we both know there’s not much else we can do. I stand in front of him for a few more seconds before leaving, walking quietly down the hall. 

            It’s going to be a long journey.


	22. Flirting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Val Royeaux.

            “Fiona, take a moment to relax, will you?” Dorian sighs dramatically.

            I run my hand underneath my nose before letting my forehead fall on the table. “I hate the 'getting there' part of traveling.” I mutter into the noisy tavern.

            “Yes, I’ve gathered that much.” Dorian’s voice implies he’s rolling his eyes, too.

            “How bloody long is it going to take to get to the Western Approach again? Eighty years? Ninety-one?” I whine before looking up.

            “You are incredibly impatient.” Dorian twirls the edges of his moustache. “I thought you were excited to stay in Val Royeaux. What was it we were telling Blackwall? Hot water? Decent food?”

            I prop my chin on my hand. “Yes, but stopping so early for the night leaves me time to think of all the things that could be possibly going wrong right now. In the Western Approach, in Skyhold, in all of damn Thedas.” I’ve already thought of the various ways in which Corypheus would attack Skyhold, and panicked at each one. What if he finds it with just his archdemon and burns the whole place to the ground at night? We’re not prepared for it!

            “Well, you can’t do anything about the world ending right now.” Dorian kicks back the legs of his chair and stretches, warm firelight glinting off of his skin. “Tonight, we’re just taking a much needed break.”

            I sniff dejectedly before scanning the tavern. “I guess Blackwall’s really not coming. I thought he wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity for some good ale.”

            “He doesn’t seem to like Val Royeaux very much, does he?” Dorian tosses a casual look around crowded space before his chair goes back on four legs and he leans in close. “But there _is_ someone here who’s had his eye on you for quite a while now.”

            “The barkeep, wondering if we’re going to be able to pay or not?” I make a face, acknowledging the state of my traveling clothes and worn leather armor.

            Dorian gives me another sigh. “You’re so perceptive at times, and so dense at others.” His eyes flick to a table across the room.

            I follow his gaze and find someone, a very attractive someone, staring back at me. I quickly look away, my cheeks turning red. “You could’ve warned me not to look,” I hiss under my breath, chugging at my cider.

            “You’re so adorable when you blush, Fiona. Like a little green-eyed tomato.” Dorian quips.

            “Shut up.” I grumble, his words only making my face warmer. I suddenly remember that I’ve called Cullen a tomato before. When the hell did that happen?

            Dorian pats my shoulder. “This will be good for you.”

            I blink suddenly, my thoughts pulled away from tomato-Cullen. “What?”

            “It will, at the very least, force you to think of something other than Corypheus destroying all of Thedas.” Dorian pushes back his chair with a loud screeching noise and stands.

            “Where are you going?” I frown at him.

            “I’m not entirely sure. Do have some fun, Fiona.” Dorian winks before leaving me alone at the table.

            I’m about to hurry to follow him out when the man I caught staring at me earlier begins to walk over to me.

            I have a moment of panic, and respond by quickly looking the opposite direction and taking a long drink of cider. When I set the mug down, he’s in front of me. His mask only covers the area around his very dark eyes, leaving a wonderfully sculpted nose and full lips open to appreciation.

            “Um.” I scratch the back of my head.

            “My lady,” he says sweetly. Andraste’s Ass, Orlesian accents can be wonderful.

            “Anything I can help you with?” I ask bluntly. Shit. I’m so not demure.

            The man just chuckles quietly. “I was actually hoping to buy a beautiful woman a drink.”

            “Really?” When was the last time someone flirted with me this openly? Or… is he not actually flirting with me? Maker, I’m terrible at this. “Have you asked her yet?”

            He flashes a smile with tiny, white teeth. “I’m trying to, but I’m not sure if she was drinking with a friend or a companion earlier. I don’t want to cause offense.”

            “I highly doubt you have to worry about that.” I unsuccessfully try to stifle a laugh. Dorian had been scoping out beautiful men just a few minutes before he left. I feel a twinge of guilt… Blackwall—but he’s made it very clear that there can be nothing between us. If anything, that makes me want to banter with this man even more. So screw it.

            “Is that so? In that case, my lady, may I buy you a drink?” Again with the pretty smile.

            “That depends. Can I buy a drink for you, too?” I raise my eyebrows. I never like feeling indebted to anyone, a mug of cider included.

            It seems to catch the man off-guard. “It was to be a gift.”

            I grin impishly at him, feeling the pace of our conversation. “Hm. I usually don’t accept gifts from strangers.” I think I’m still blushing a little bit.

            “Then let us not be strangers any longer.” The man extends his hand, and I reach, ready to shake it. He, however, catches my fingers delicately and presses his lips against my knuckles.

            Shit. I am so red right now. _He’s probably done this with plenty of other women on different nights at the tavern. Keep your head attached to your neck, Fee._

            “I am Baron Anton Lamont Jacques, nephew of Comte Marcel Ansel Jacques.” He says musically. Well, that’s a long-ass title.

            “Fee.” I blurt out my answer as I let my hand fall back into my lap.

            “Well, I feel rather foolish now.” The Baron says with a good-natured laugh. “Please, just call me Anton, then. May I sit?”

            I nod rapidly. “Of course.” Now I’m trapped. If I say something stupid, I’ll just have to crawl under the table.

            Anton takes a seat. “It’s not often we hear single-name introductions here in Val Royeaux.”

            “I’ve never been fond of titles. It’s too much to remember, at any rate.” I brush hair away from my eyes, my heart still beating a little too fast.

            “You’re an unusual woman, Fee.” Anton tilts his head to the side.

            “Because I think listing off fifty names is ridiculous?” I ask. Did that sound rude? Damn. Time to hide under the table.

            Anton shifts his weight on his chair, bringing himself closer to me. “You’re intriguing.” So I didn’t screw up too badly.

            “And what about you? You have an air of mysteriousness. Though, I admit the mask only adds to that.”

            “I’ve heard mysteriousness is part of my charm.” Anton says shamelessly. He leans in even closer to me. “Though, I do appreciate your directness.”

            “You’d be one of few. Most people prefer being coy.” I answer. “I’ve always thought the fewer words the better. Though, I suppose using proper grammar to form actual sentences is important, too.”

            Anton laughs. “Yes, I suppose it is. Simplicity has never been valued much here, when almost everything is part of the Game.”

            “Well, the Game has never sounded like much fun to me.” I play with the handle on my mug. “Too much lying and _literal_ backstabbing for my taste.”

            “There is quite a bit of that involved, isn’t there?” Anton turns his head, now whispering in my ear. “The players just all need the right backing. And with the Inquisitor’s help, the Game would be much easier to manipulate, yes?”

            Inquisitor.

            Oh.

            Anton knows who I am. He’s here to get my support. Or whatever the hell he needs for stupid Orlesian politics.

            “I’m not interested in the Game.” I say as calmly as I can, though I can already feel humiliation sneaking up on me. He’s not flirting with me. He’s trying to flatter the Inquisitor.

            “It could be advantageous for both of us.” Anton says softly, his breath on my cheek.

            I pull away from him, his closeness now feeling like some cruel joke. Why am I always so stupid? Every damn time it happens this way.

            Anton smiles again, and I feel like I’m about to burst into tears. _Beautiful. Unusual. Intriguing. I need something from you, Inquisitor._  I shouldn’t be upset by this.

            “We should discuss this later.” I say, desperate to get out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ I try to stand and Anton reaches out to grab my wrist.

            “We are negotiating now, are we not?” Anton asks calmly.

            Suddenly, Dorian is looming over Anton’s shoulder. “Fiona, I believe it’s time we should be getting back to the others.”

            Anton’s charming expression freezes; he’s clearly annoyed. “The lady and I were in the middle of a conversation.”

            “Yes, how pleasant for you.” Dorian offers me his hand, and I take it without hesitation, pulling away from Anton. “Good evening.” Dorian says to Anton, though his voice is clipped.

            I hold onto Dorian’s fingers until we’re out of the tavern, and I’m barely keeping back a wave of tears. I bite my lip and watch my feet until Dorian stops in the wonderfully fresh night air.

            “I shouldn’t have left. He was offering to make a deal with us.” I mumble, still observing my shoes intently. The sound from the tavern is muffled from outside, and the wind rustles through the tops of the apple trees on the sides of the street.

            “A deal?” Dorian asks.

            “Yeah. One that would help him in the Game. I’m not even sure what he was offering us.” I feel like I’ve regained some of my composure and look back up at Dorian again.

            “Well, he shouldn’t have grabbed onto you when you tried to leave.” Dorian shakes his head. “He had a pretty woman to drink with, and he tried proposing a business deal? He obviously lacks good judgment.”

            I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “I’m the Inquisitor. It should be expected.”

            “Nonsense.” Dorian slips his arm around my shoulders. “I’ve already heard what our resident Warden said to you, and that’s bullshit too.”

            “Dorian!” I squawk. “How did you—Varric.” I whisper viciously. He and Hawke are back at the inn where we’re staying, but they will be thoroughly scolded tonight if I have anything to say about it. Which I do. I have a lot to say. Some of it unpleasant. Some of it including language to make my mother scold me.

            “We share all on-going developments about your interactions, sweet Fiona.” Dorian swings around his free hand to bop me on the nose. “And I’ll have you know that Blackwall still stares at you longingly whenever you have your back turned, before he goes back to looking gruff. Not that I’m encouraging you to go back to him. My money’s on someone else.”

            “Well you and Varric will both be out of luck, because I don’t have time for… for…”

            “A quick tumble in the dark?” Dorian drops his arm and smoothens his moustache. “True love? Because frankly, dear girl, either would do you some good.”

            “ _Dorian_!” I say his name more vehemently this time. “Maker’s Balls, could you please pry into something _other_ than my pathetic love life?”

            The mage _tsks_ at me, waving his finger around in front of my eyes. “Your pathetic love life is incredibly interesting to the people who care about you.”

            I glare at him. “How you can say such nice things in such a patronizing way is a mystery to me.”

            Dorian snorts and loops his arm through mine. “The night is still young—shall we find another tavern with handsome young men?”

            “No, thank you. I’ve had enough embarrassment to hold me over for weeks.” I retort as we begin walking down the street.

            “I thought you had been doing quite well! Granted, I was observing your expressions and couldn’t hear you…”

            I elbow him in the ribs. “I should’ve known you’d be watching the entire time.”

            “Keeping an eye out.” Dorian answers. “I wouldn’t have left you all alone.”

            For some reason, it’s suddenly hard to swallow, and I have the strong desire to hug Dorian. I make do with simply leaning against him instead. “Thank you.” I say quietly.


	23. Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Western Approach.

            “And why is it that I’m not entirely surprised it came to this for the Wardens?” Dorian frowns as Hawke wraps a bandage around Stroud’s arm.

            “Must have something to do with the Tevinter magister that brainwashed them.” Blackwall retorts.

            I press a rag that’s been doused in a healing potion to my face and wince at the sting. Damn demon claws. “Tevinter or Wardens—we’re screwed either way. No sense in arguing about it now,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

            We’d made it back to camp, though Stroud lost too much blood in the process. Our encounter with the Wardens had banished any last hope I had that the Order was enjoying a nice little vacation. Unless mind control counts as a vacation. And I don’t think it does.

            “Arguing about it _before_ the Wardens started killing each other would’ve been nice.” Hawke’s icy eyes narrow.

            “The Wardens were wrong, Hawke, but they had their reasons.” Stroud’s face is pale as Hawke ties the bandage off with sharp movements.

            “Everyone has their reasons.” Hawke straightens and steps away from Stroud. “Everyone has some story they tell themselves to justify their bad decisions. But it never matters. People die. In the end, you are always alone with your actions.”

            “Hawke…” Varric’s eyebrows pull together.

            “There aren’t any excuses for murdering innocent people.” Hawke snaps. “And that includes the Wardens killing each other to use their blood magic.”

            Stroud bows his head as Hawke flops onto the sandy tent floor. It feels like we’ve already been defeated.

            I lower the now bloody rag from my face. “Well, this whole day could’ve gone better.” I point out the obvious. Blackwall sits beside to me as I lean against the tent post.

            “Oh, I don’t know. What’s more fun than finding out Corypheus has an entire demon army?” Dorian asks lightly, but the bags under his eyes look like they’re about to take over his face.

            I just want to sleep. I bring my knees to my chest and think numbly about how much I hate deserts. And how I never want to come back to the Western Approach again. “What I wouldn’t do for some rain right now.” I mumble.

            Blackwall sighs quietly next to me, and I tilt my face so I can meet his eyes. “Would you rather have soggy boots in Crestwood, or sandy smalls here?” I question suddenly.

            Stroud raises his head slowly to give me a confused look. Dorian’s the first to answer. “Soggy boots. The sand has gotten into places that are most unpleasant.”

            I snort, and Blackwall chuckles too. “Are you rolling around on the ground, Dorian?” Blackwall shakes his head. “I’d rather be here than stomping through the rain and fighting the undead. Bloody hate those things.”

            “One vote for Crestwood, one vote for the Western Approach.” I raise my eyebrows at Stroud, still pressing the cloth against my jaw. “What about you?”

            For a moment, I think the Warden won’t answer. But Stroud just says seriously, “Crestwood. The cave was at least dry.”

            “Fair point. Hawke?”

            “Is 'neither' an answer?” She asks tiredly. When I shake my head, she muses, “Then… maybe… Maker, I hate them both… Here. Less sneezing on my part, but more sweating.”

            I look at Varric, and the dwarf says, “Crestwood. Dreary as hell, but perfect for writing inspiration.”

            “I’d say Crestwood as well. Four to two, then.” I point to Blackwall and Hawke. “Enjoy the sand in your smalls.”

            “It really is uncomfortable.” Dorian mutters.

            “Agreed,” I say, heaving myself to my feet. “I need to write a letter to Skyhold with an update. Try not to argue too much about Wardeny things, or Tevinter stuff, or who has the most ridiculous facial hair.”

            “Ridiculous?” Dorian and Blackwall say together.

            Stroud’s hand is on his droopy moustache as he says, “I’m sure we could find many other words to describe it. Dignified?”

            I roll my eyes dramatically as Blackwall voices his agreement and Dorian nods. Of course they’d bond over their hairiness.

            “Can we talk about chest hair?” Hawke grins at Varric. The heaviness in the tent seems to lessen.

            “Hawke, you’ll make Broody cry if you go all crazy for my chest hair.” Varric winks.

            “Don't worry, Varric. I like chest hair, but I love all of his smooth lines, taught muscles, delicious warm skin, lickable-”

            “Cut it out!” I wave my hands around my head. “I’m not going to be able to look Fenris in the eye again if I listen to you talk about… licking.”

            Dorian tilts his head to the side. “I could stand to hear more.”

            “Makers Balls.” I mutter under my breath.

            “I think it’s someone else’s-”

            “Yes, Dorian. I got that.” I interrupt him, turning red. “I have a report to write,” I say quickly, pushing open the tent flap and ignoring the laughter that follows me out.

            The sun is starting to set on the horizon, tinting everything with an orange glow.

            I scribble an update to Cullen:

           

_Cullen (and Leliana, since I know you’re reading this, too),_

_It’s the usual doom and disaster out here. A Tevinter magister named Erimond is helping the Wardens to raise a demon army. Yup. You heard me right. Or read me right. Whatever._

_My point is- the Wardens are using blood magic to summon demons so they can go into the Deep Roads and kill the Old Gods, therefore stopping the next Blight before it can begin. Messy business in the first place. Except Erimond is actually using this demon army for Corypheus. And the mages who have pet demons now are also mind controlled by Erimond and Corypheus. Not good. But at least we now know where Corypheus is getting his army of demons from!_

_Stroud suspects that the Wardens are currently in Adamant Fortress, preparing. Hawke and Stroud plan on leaving to scout out Adamant and confirm this before returning to Skyhold. I also found out a little more information about the Anchor, but that can wait until I get back. The excitement never ends! Unfortunately._

_I hope everything’s still calm in Skyhold (ha) with no new problems (HA)._

_-Fee_

            I give the letter off to Scout Lester, who will probably pass it off to a messenger bird, and then realize I’m caked in sand, demon bits, and blood. In other words, I'm in desperate need of a bath. Which is a little difficult when there’s no water anywhere in site other than canteens for drinking.

            Stupid deserts.

            The gash across my jaw has almost stopped bleeding, but I’ve yet to actually _see_ how big or how deep it is. It certainly hurts like half of my face was removed, though.

            There’s the familiar sound of footsteps on sand and I turn to see Blackwall approaching. “The others weren’t sure if you’d tried running off without us.”

            “It was tempting,” I answer slowly. “But I don’t think I’d know how to get out if this place on my own.”

            “I haven’t forgotten about the day you led us in a circle three times around that mountain in the Hinterlands,” Blackwall says with a chuckle.

            “We agreed to never talk about that again.” My eyes narrow at the Warden. “In fact, I don’t remember a thing about it. Which mountain is this? My sense of direction wasn’t perfect? Impossible.”

            “Of course, my lady. You wouldn’t have led us astray for hours at a time. It must’ve been a different Inquisitor.” Blackwall’s stormy sea eyes are twinkling.

            “Oh, I’ve heard the most terrible things about that other Inquisitor.” I lean close to him conspiratorially. “She once swore in front of the chantry clerics and the Templar Order in Val Royeaux. Then, she went to this party hosted by Madame de Fer and spilled champagne all over herself and bumped into the Marquis of, um, somewhere important. And, we can’t forget the time that she fell down the stairs in Skyhold in front of half the recruits.”

            Blackwall looks at me seriously. “You’ve forgotten that this Inquisitor has also saved the Inquisition—and Thedas. She went to Redcliffe, walking right into a trap, to save the rebel mages. She closed the breach. And again risked her life when Corypheus attacked Haven.”

            It seems so wrong in all the right ways that we’re talking about the _Inquisitor_ like she’s not actually me. It makes sense that the Inquisitor is who Blackwall cares for. It’s why he can’t be with her—with me. I can think of so many things I want to say, yet I can’t make the words come out of my mouth. So instead, I answer, “It sounds like she does lots of stupid things.”

            “Noble.” Blackwall corrects quietly. “You may do dangerous things, but you always do it for the right reasons.”

            There is it. The switch back to talking about me instead of the Inquisitor. Who is it that Blackwall cares for?

            I look out over the sand. The sky is turning pink now as the sun begins to vanish in the distance. “So… if I decide to find a dragon with Bull and try to fly on it…”

            “Not the right reason,” Blackwall says, the corners of his mouth curling up.

            “Definitely for the right reason. Can you imagine how amazing it would be to fly on a dragon? I mean, I’d probably scream the whole time and be terrified of falling off-”

            “Or turn into a pile of ashes before you can get too close,” Blackwall adds.

            “Yeah, yeah.” I sigh. “It’s a dream, alright? I can’t try to be _noble_ all the time.”

            Blackwall shakes his head. “If only you knew how confounding you are, how impossibly infuriating.”

            “We can add that to the list of ‘Things Blackwall loves about Fee’—stubborn, confounding, infuriating… what else is there?” I ask with a grin. “Shall we throw in ‘terrible with directions’ while we’re at it?”

            The Warden gives his rumbling laugh and I join in. We’re both smiling at each other, eyes crinkling around the edges. _This. This is hard._ When we fall quiet, I can feel we’re too close.

            I’m about to pull away when Blackwall presses his lips to mine. It’s only a brief moment before he breaks the kiss. “I shouldn't have-”

            “What am I to you?” I ask suddenly, though I’m not sure it’s really my voice that sounds so low and hurt. I’ve said these words before. I don’t like not knowing. I don’t like when things aren’t simple.

            “You’re… someone who deserves more.” Blackwall answers roughly, regret flashing across his face.

            I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

            “I’m not what you want. And I could never be what you deserve.”

            Frustration is bubbling underneath my skin. “Last time you gave me a different reason. I just want the truth, Blackwall.” I still have so many questions, I'm not sure which ones I want answers to the most. I'm so tired of being strung along. 

            Blackwall holds my gaze and I can’t look away as he says, “There’s nothing I can offer you. Anything between us… But I need you to end this. Because I can’t.”

            “You need me to end this?” I feel my eyebrows draw together as my eyes start to burn. “It’s not right to put this all on me when you won’t even give me a straight answer.”

            “It… it isn’t.” Blackwall steps away from me. “It’s cowardly. This… this is what I am, don’t you see?”

            I feel my face start to scrunch up and try to fight it. “I see a good, honest man who keeps pushing me away for reasons I still don't understand. I care about you, and I… I think you care about me, too.”

            “I do.” Blackwall growls. “But this was always my burden to bear.”

            It’s happening again. He’s ending things for a second time. Maker, I hate this. “What burden?”

            “Goodnight, my lady. Perhaps one day you’ll forgive me for this.” Blackwall says quietly before heading back into camp.

            I sink to the ground and wrap my arms around my legs, putting my forehead on my knees.

            There are much worse things going on than having Blackwall reject me again. For example, Corypheus has a demon army.

            For some reason, that doesn’t make me feel any better. And it’s the weight of it all that brings me to crying alone as the sun disappears from view.

            I really hate this desert.


	24. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold approach/ Skyhold.

            “Almost there.” Dorian mutters.

            We’re passing through the camp outside of Skyhold. It’s pretty much turned into a little village during our absence. I pat the side of Trinn’s neck as the horse trudges through the main path. Most people are inside their tents because of the weather.

            And it’s been raining for the last three days. I haven’t minded after the Western Approach, but Dorian has been downright miserable.

            He’s currently sneezing and shivering in the saddle, looking utterly miserable. “A hot bath and a bucket of tea are waiting for you,” I encourage him.

            Dorian tries to say something, only to sneeze again.

            “Sparkler, I might have to rename you Snotty or something if you keep this up.” Varric calls from behind us.

            I snort, and Dorian glares at me. “I put up with you when you were injured and delusional- and _carried_ you for hours on this road, damn it. Don’t laugh at me now.”

            “Sorry, sorry,” I apologize rather insincerely. Though I _am_ grateful for Dorian carrying me. I’m not the easiest to haul around.

            The path steepens, Skyhold towering above us. Maker, I love that place—and that nothing happened to it while we were gone.

            Scout Lester is riding a fair distance in front of us, his sword replacing Blackwall’s when the Warden requested to join Hawke and Stroud in scouting out Adamant. It was obvious he didn’t want to stay around me, and I’d been happy enough to send him on his way. Hurt and anger mingled together—I’m really damn sick of being strung along, pulled back and forth on his whims and excuses.

            I realize I’m scowling, but I break into a smile when I hear the caterwaul, “Fee’s here! The Inky’s back, you lot! And in one piece, a miracle innit? Take that Corfyfish.”

            “Sera!” I shout, urging Trinn forward. The elf is perched dangerously on the ramparts, but she swings her legs around and disappears from view as we cross the drawbridge.

            “Hot bath. Very hot bath.” Dorian says to me, his teeth chattering. “I refuse to be debriefed until I can actually feel my extremities again.”

            “No arguments here,” I say, grinning widely as I scramble off of Trinn, dismounting ungracefully, and charge over to Sera.

            I throw my arms over her shoulders, happy with the walls of Skyhold around me.

            “Aw, Fee, miss me, did you?” Sera cackles as I step away. “Giving away hugs like that? Do I get a kiss next?” Sera puckers her lips as ridiculously as she can, making disgusting slurping noises.

            I laugh. “I did miss you. But like hell would I kiss you when you’re making those sounds.”

            Sera wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “I can make other sounds for you instead.”

            “The company you keep, Fiona,” Cassandra’s dressed in full armor as she approaches.

            “Cassaaaandra!” I call dramatically, before attacking her with a hug as well. “Life is so unregimented without you.”

            The Seeker pats my back awkwardly until I release her, and then eyes Varric. “Did you give her more of those potions? Is she ill?”

            I wrinkle my nose at Cassandra while Varric says, “Not to my knowledge. I think Bright Eyes is just glad to be back.”

            “I get to sleep in a _bed_ ,” I say reverently, feeling almost giddy at the thought of being back home.

            Home.

            My warm and fuzzy thoughts are interrupted by Dorian as he slides off of his horse and sneezes again. “While this reunion is lovely, you’ll have to excuse me. I have-” he coughs wretchedly. “I have a hot bath calling my name.”

            “Hurry, Snotty. Before Seeker tries to pin you down for a report.” Varric winks at Cassandra, who makes a disgusted noise in response.

            Dorian makes himself scarce, hacking his lungs out as he goes.

            “Varric, you should get yourself warmed up as well. I’ll take care of the horses.” I say to the dwarf.

            Scout Lester has already led his own mare away along with Dorian’s. “I won’t turn down an opportunity to get out of this rain,” Varric answers gratefully.

            “Maybe _you_ should give me your report first, Varric.” Cassandra says with narrowed eyes.

            “I’d love to, Seeker. Maybe over a few ales? I’d buy, of course.” Varric somehow makes the suggestion seem like he’s asking her out for a drink. Damn, that dwarf is smooth.

            Cassandra crosses her arms and I can tell there’s an argument brewing. I look at Sera, and she wordlessly takes the reigns to Varric’s horse. We leave the woman and dwarf to bicker as we walk toward the stables.

            The rain’s coming down almost like mist, now. My hair is soaked, and probably ridiculously frizzy as well. Trinn nuzzles against my shoulder, and I rub her neck.

            Sera chatters about the prank she pulled on Josephine while we were gone, and I’m caught between snickering and telling her, “That’s awful, Sera!”

            “It was great.” Sera hoots as we pass the horses off to Dennet. “Our lady ambassador was still perfectly dignified, water dripping from her ruffledy skirts, and she just said, ‘I believe we might have a leak in our roof’.”

            “Poor Josephine.” I give Sera the side-eye. “You better not try to do that to me any time soon.”

            She waves her hand around in the air. “You do enough stuff to make a fool of yourself, y’know.”

            A full glare now. “Thanks for that.”

            “Any time, Inky.” Sera answers impishly.

            “Fee!”

            “Cullen!” I beam at the Commander as he approaches the stables.

            Sera rolls her eyes and sighs. “Here comes the boring talk. I’m out. If he tries to blame me for shite, you defend my honor.”

            “What honor?” I ask innocently.

            She sticks her tongue out at me before sprinting off past Cullen, shouting, “I didn’t do anything,” as she goes.

            “Why is that not reassuring?” Cullen mutters as he stops in front of me, sheltered from the rain by the overhang of the stable roof.

            “It’s Sera.” I say, by means of an explanation.

            “True,” the scarred side of Cullen’s mouth lifts.

            I love that lopsided smile. I’m about to ask how he’s feeling when Cullen suddenly frowns. “No one mentioned in their letters that you were injured.”

            I blink at him. “I wasn’t.”

            Cullen raises his hand to my jaw, calloused, warm fingers under the now healing gash across my face. “This looks like it was deep.”

            “Oh. That.” I state intelligently, incredibly distracted by his touch.

            He lets his hand fall quickly, almost like he heard my thoughts, and I feel heat creep up my neck. “It was just a demon,” I explain quickly, avoiding looking him directly. “Dorian said it’ll probably scar. Now I’ll have double scars across my chin.”

            “Double?” Cullen asks.

            I tap the thin, raised line underneath my chin. “No one can see it unless they’re much shorter than me. I fell on a table when I was eight.”

            “You… _fell on a table_?” Cullen repeats my words incredulously.

            “Well, the table fell on me too.” I say with a sniff. “It was a small wooden one with sharp corners. I was chasing after my brothers through the sitting room and… the table and I fell on each other. If that makes sense.”

            Cullen stares at me. “Somehow, I find that I’m not very surprised.”

            I snort, and tilt my head to the side. “Did Cassandra send you after me to drag me to the War Room?”

            “What? Ah, no. I just heard you were back and, ah, wanted to see how you were faring.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.

            “She totally did send you.” I gripe.

            “Actually, she said that we could wait to meet until after you’d had a decent meal.” Cullen answers. He seems oddly embarrassed. “I… How are-”

            I turn my face to sneeze violently before sniffing and looking back at Cullen.

            “Maker’s Breath, Fee. You look h- frozen.” Cullen stops himself from repeating the mistake he’d made in our first week in Skyhold.

            “Thank you for not saying I look horrible, though I’m sure ‘a complete mess’ could describe me pretty well at the moment,” I say with another little snivel.

            The sky chooses that moment to crack with thunder, and I jump. Rain begins to pour down harder. “Nooo,” I whine.

            Cullen chuckles. “Should we try to make it back to the great hall?” His honey eyes are bright, and I feel my face light up.

            “We’ll have to run,” I say loudly as the rumble of thunder echoes around us. “Can you move fast in that armor?”

            “Fast enough,” Cullen answers, the corners of his eyes crinkling happily.

            “Let’s go!” I shout like it’s a battle cry. Then I’m charging off, boots slapping the muddy ground. “Try to keep up,” I throw the words over my shoulder.

            The rain drips into my eyes, but I charge up the hill past the market stalls, grinning into the chilly air. It feels free.

            I pause to catch my breath at the top the hill, my chest heaving as I blink away rain drops.

            “You’re not making it difficult to keep up with you,” Cullen’s voice is in my ear.

            It catches me by surprise as I spin to face him, only for the slick ground to make me lose my footing. I start to stumble and Cullen catches me around the waist.

            Except I keep falling, bringing Cullen down with me as we hit the ground. Somehow he’s managed to get his hand underneath my head, cushioning the fall.

            I burst out laughing as Cullen quickly rolls his weight off of me, but I hear his distinct chuckle turn louder as both of us lie in the mud, faces up to the rain.

            “Sorry, Cullen,” I gasp between laughs.

            He pulls himself into a sitting position, but sounds just as breathless as he tells me, “Have I mentioned that the Inquisition is much more exciting when you’re around?”

            “No one else accidentally trips the Commander?” I ask.

            “No one’s dared to try,” Cullen answers with a smirk.

            Another clap of thunder precedes an increase in the downpour, rain pelting us, making it hard to see.

            “Andraste’s saggy tits, what is this?” I shout over the noise. I think there’s hail coming down now, too.

            Cullen stands first and extends his hand to me. “Maybe Andraste’s response to being insulted by her Herald.”

            That makes me dissolve into a fresh wave of giggles, and I grasp his fingers, letting him pull me to my feet. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and Cullen and I run back through the storm, leaning against each other. Everyone who’s still out in the rush for the Herald’s Rest, putting Cullen and I against the tide. I’m still holding onto his hand as we trip up the steps to the Great Hall, both of us laughing so hard we’re practically doubled over. I’m not entirely sure what we’re laughing about anymore, but I love it.

            When we make it to the doors of the Great Hall and push inside, dropping each other’s hands to do so.

            The few nobles who are inside turn, as well as Josephine, Bull, and some of the Inquisition officers, to see us enter.

            “Inquisitor! There you are,” Josephine says, her voice distinctly a _something is very important_ tone _._ “I was just telling Duke Isidro that you had arrived today.”

            She gestures to a stern looking man at her right, and I register him as a Rivaini noble Josephine’s mentioned before. I automatically try to curtsy in my traveling armor. _This looks terribly awkward._

“A pleasure, Duke Isidro.” I try to smile through my cringe before muttering to Cullen, “Please tell me that I don’t have mud in my hair?”

            “I don’t think I should answer that.” Cullen whispers back.

            I really am back home.


	25. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

“That is the good news,” Leliana says, looking from Josephine to me.

            Helen grabs a piece of my hair and grips it in her tiny fist. Everyone’s watching me from around the war table, but the baby is the only one who makes me feel any calmer.

            Stroud and Blackwall stand together with matching grim expressions. Hawke and Fenris are next to them, Fenris looking more concerned than broody, and Hawke for once has no jokes to tell. Fenris has been inseparable from Hawke since she returned with the Wardens from scouting out Adamant this morning.

            The advisors stand across the table, waiting for me to say something.

            “Right. Trebuchets are good, I guess. But what about the giant demon army? You know, the one that Corypheus summoned to destroy the world that’s supposed to be housed in Adamant as well?” I swallow hard and look down at Helen again, who gives me a wide, toothless smile, blissfully unaware of the situation.

            “That is the bad news.” Leliana answers, prompting a bleak laugh from Hawke.

            “Surprise, surprise.” Hawke leans on her staff.

            “The Inquisition forces can breach the gate,” Cullen nods to me, “but if the Wardens already have their demons…”

            Leliana leans over the war table, red hair falling into her eyes. “I found records of Adamant’s construction. There are choke points we can use to limit the field of battle.”

            “That’s good,” Cullen looks from Leliana to me. “We may not be able to defeat them outright, but if we cut off reinforcements, we can carve you a path to Warden-Commander Clarel.”

            I cradle Helen closer to me, holding her against my chest. “Carve a path? What exactly is this going to mean for the Inquisition soldiers marching on Adamant?” My heart has been racing since the Wardens and Hawke returned to Skyhold—we’re planning an attack. An actual attack on a fortress with our soldiers. It’s like we’re _trying_ to make Haven happen again.

            “Our soldiers know the risks, Inquisitor. And they know what they’re fighting for.” Josephine says lightly, but her eyes are hard.

            “It’ll be hard-fought, no way around it. But we’ll get that gate open.” Cullen adds darkly.

            I shake my head, and Helen coos as my hair brushes against her cheeks. “Isn’t there another way? If we’re trying to attack and break down the gates, we won’t have much of a defense. The archers will be able to kill so many of us before we can even enter Adamant.”

            “There isn’t an alternative we know about.” Leliana looks up at me from under her hair.

            “Nothing like Redcliffe? No other ways to sneak a small force in as a distraction? No way for us to try to flank the fortress?” I look to Hawke, then Stroud, then Blackwall.

            “No. The fortress was meant to stand against darkspawn attacks—any underground passage would be out of the question.” Stroud answers.

            I grit my teeth together. “Anything? Any other way?” I can’t let Haven happen again. Who would we lose this time? Matt’s sword leans against the stupid, gaudy throne in the Great Hall, a reminder of those who didn’t make it to Skyhold with us.

            “There is no other way.” Leliana straightens and clasps her hands behind her back.

            Helen yawns, green eyes starting to glaze over with sleep. I watch her for a moment, trying to maintain a little bit of calm as I say, “I understand.”

            “It is possible that some Wardens may be sympathetic to our cause.” Josephine suggests.

            Leliana nods in agreement. “The warriors may be willing to listen to reason, though I doubt they will turn on Clarel directly. The mages, however, are slaves to Corypheus. They will fight to the death.”

            “Then we try to turn as many Wardens as possible.” I feel my stomach tightening into knots and struggle to keep my voice steady. “If we can get to Clarel quickly enough, maybe there’s some way to break whatever mind controlling blood magic she and the magister are using.”

            “You can try, but this is not magic easily broken.” Leliana’s eyes sweep across the war table. “We’ll need some time to prepare the siege engines.”

            “And the troops will need to be organized as well.” Cullen crosses his arms. “We could be ready to move within two days.”

            “The replacement equipment will be finished tomorrow,” Fenris adds in his usual growl.

            Josephine makes note of something. “Excellent. We will begin the march to Adamant in three day’s time.”

            _Excellent._ No, it’s not excellent. It’s horrifying. What will the casualties be like? Who will it be? Varric? Cullen? Hawke? I’m planning the potential deaths of my friends.

            I can’t even think about it, panic starting to squeeze my lungs.

            “We can meet tomorrow to make sure the preparations are going according to plan.” Leliana says, then looks at me for the final word.

            There are many words I want to say, but none of them will come out of my mouth. Instead, I mutter, “Get sleep tonight while you can. It’s a long way to the Western Approach.”

            I move over to Fenris and Hawke while the others begin leaving the war room, and pass the sleeping baby to Fenris. Helen’s mouth opens into a little pink ‘o’ before she rolls her father’s chest, snuggling against his dark armor.

            “It’s not what you expected, is it?” Hawke asks quietly.

            “Attacking Adamant?” The war room’s empty now except for us, the table looming to my right.

            The mage shakes her head. “Being Inquisitor. Too many decisions about people’s lives are in your hands, yet there’s times you feel so powerless to actually help them. It seems that Champions and Inquisitors share similar frustrations.”

            “Pretty shitty frustrations for us to have,” I mutter. “When I became Inquisitor, I did it thinking that I just wanted to protect them all. And now they’ll be fighting and dying at Adamant.”

            “While protecting your people is a noble ideal, you are at war.” Fenris tells me in a low voice.

            “And at war, people die. I know that. I _know_ that. But they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t die.” I grit my teeth. “They trust me as Inquisitor. They said they’d follow me, and where am I leading them?”

            Fenris and Hawke are quiet for a moment, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be-”

            “Fee.” Hawke says firmly. “Don’t ever apologize for not being some unshakable puppet. Especially not to me.”

            Fenris grunts in what might be an agreement.

            “The Inquisitor’s not supposed to be questioning what she’s doing.” I look at my boots.

            “The Inquisitor is supposed to be doing whatever the hell you want to be doing.” Hawke shoots back. “And I say that because you’re a damn good Inquisitor, and I trust you not to run around the ramparts in nothing but your smalls, screaming that you don’t want to go to Adamant.”

            I crack a smile as I raise my head again, and Hawke’s sharp blue eyes have an unusual softness to them. “I would never run anywhere in just my smalls, thank you very much.”

            “See, you _could_ stand to have a little more fun.” Hawke teases.

            Fenris gives a pained sigh. “I believe Hawke is trying to say that you are allowed to question yourself and the Inquisition.”

            “And you shouldn’t be sorry that you have doubts like any other person. You’re the Inquisitor, yes, but you’re still just a person like everyone else. People like to stick other people up on pedestals and look to them for decisions.” Hawke points to herself. “That means they trust you, not that they expect you to be perfect.”

            “They better not. They’ve seen me fall on my ass too many times for that.” I rub my temples.

            Hawke snorts. “I’ve seen that a fair few times, as well. And it doesn’t make you any less of a good Inquisitor. It’s why I’ll be marching with you to Adamant as well.”

            My eyes widen. “Hawke, I wouldn’t ask you to-”

            “We’ll both be going.” Fenris says determinedly, looking at Hawke with a fierce protectiveness that makes me reevaluate my standards on love. It’s not how Varric looks at his crossbow—it’s how Fenris looks at Hawke.

            “You don’t need to do this. You’ve both done so much for the Inquisition already. You should take Helen somewhere safe.” I tell them.

            “There would be no world left if Corypheus is victorious.” Fenris says, gently rubbing a little circle on Helen’s cheek with his thumb. “There is no _safe_.”

            “And Helen?”

            “I already made arrangements for her to be kept here at Skyhold after I arrived this morning.” Hawke glances to Fenris, and when he gives a tiny nod, she says, “We’re going to Adamant.”

            I’m speechless for a moment. “I… I didn’t expect you to do this. Thank you.”

            Fenris gives me an odd look. “I trust you to hold my daughter—I trust you with my life as well. It was never in question that we would follow you.”

            He says it like it’s so simple.

            Hawke reaches forward and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “We’re with you, Fee.”

            I take a deep breath. “Then let’s get this mess sorted out.”


	26. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle camp, Western Approach.

            “You almost had it,” I try to reassure Miriam as I help her fix the new arm guard. “You just need to slide it a little higher—see where the bend is for the elbow?”

            “Oh! Oh, yes. That makes sense.” Miriam mutters as I tighten the straps.

            Only a few more hours until sundown.

            Only a few more hours until our attack on Adamant.

            “Feel comfortable?” I ask, almost impressed with my ability to sound so calm.

            Miriam nods. “Thank you, Fee.”

            “No problem.” I answer with a forced smile.

            “Hey, Boss.” Bull calls from across the row of tents. “Solas said that I was to ask you nicely to eat first. And if you said no, I could toss you over my shoulder, carry you to your tent, and stand guard outside until you had some food.”

            I grimace at the Qunari. I haven’t been hungry for the last week due to being an anxious mess, and Solas has noticed. Damn perceptive elf with those beady blue eyes. “Do you _really_ want to push your luck with that second option?” I ask, heading away from the patch of Inquisition soldiers who are sorting through their armor pieces.

            Bull just gives an innocent shrug, seeming utterly at peace with the impending battle. “You may be tall for a human, but you’re tiny among Qunari. And there are plenty of fun things that start with me roughly carrying you to a tent.”

            My jaw drops. “Wha- Really, Bull?” I flush in embarrassment, wondering if I'm somehow misunderstanding.

            “You just have a lot of tension built up, Boss.” Bull answers, crossing his arms. “Sex would do you some good.”

           Not misunderstanding. “What?! You… You and Dorian have similar ideas on what would _do me some good_. Not that he personally suggested… Uh. Not that you were seriously…”

            “I was. Seriously.” Bull grins at me.

            My face is burning as I stutter back, “Well. I- I… If, um, you and Dorian have the same ideas about these things, he might be—um, be more comfortable with… how did he say it? Um. A tumble in the dark?”

            Bull throws his head back and laughs. “Dorian is growing on me more and more. What was it he mentioned last time when he ranted about Qun's stance on magic? Bound and gagged?”

            I take in such a sharp breath that I start coughing.

            “Anyway, Dorian and his polished staff aside, you need to eat something.” Bull tells me.

            My eyes are watering, throat burning as I splutter, “Right. I’ll be going to do that now. Eat. I mean. Not polishing anyone’s staff. Shit. Definitely not that.” I bolt away from Bull, down the row of tents, feeling the heat begin to fade from face after I reach a safe distance.

            I hear Blackwall’s rumbling voice and turn the opposite direction, only to see a familiar bald head. I plunge down a different row of tents, finding myself heading toward where I met this morning with the advisors.

            After traveling with the Inquisition army for so long, we’ve become entirely proficient at setting up these battle camps.

            I pass by Cassandra and Varric, who for once don’t seem to be arguing. Then Hawke and Fenris. Hawke is helping Fenris put on his armor, talking softly. The elf presses a kiss to her forehead.

            It’s too eerily quiet—the calm before the storm. I hurry on, pushing open the tent flap to find Cullen rifling through papers.

            “Fee,” Cullen’s voice is rough as he looks up at me. His cheeks are completely devoid of color, face haggard.

            “Going over last minute details?” I ask.

            “New reports from Josephine in Skyhold. All is well there, with few problems from the Hinterlands.” Cullen answers.

            “Few problems?”

            Cullen gives an attempt at a smile. “Someone requested the Inquisition’s help in finding a lost druffalo.”

            That surprises a laugh out of me. “What are we doing in the Western Approach, Commander? Turn our troops around—we have a druffalo to search for!”

            Cullen chuckles as he sets the reports down on a boulder we used for a table. “Consider it done.”

            My face falls as Cullen rubs his temples, his brow furrowing. “Headache again?” I frown.

            “Mm,” he squeezes his eyes shut.

            “They’re getting more frequent.” I’ve noticed him wearing down over our journey to the Western Approach.

            “I suppose they are.” Cullen admits quietly. The pain is evident in his voice.

            Maker, lyrium makes me so angry—right along with the whole of the Templar Order. My mouth twists, and I can feel my eyes harden.

            Cullen’s hands drop from his temples. “I don’t mean to worry you.”

            “I’m not worrying. I’m caring. There’s a difference.” I tell him, trying to smooth over my expression.

            Cullen looks at me with tired amusement. “Is there?”

            I nod. “So don’t _you_ worry about worrying me. There’s too many other things that we have to actually worry about. Like runaway druffalos.”

            Cullen snorts before his expression turns serious. “Speaking of worrying, how do you feel?”

            “About druffalos?” I ask, though I know I’m deflecting.

            “I think I’ve grasped your stance on the issue underneath all the sarcasm.” A flash of a smirk crosses Cullen’s face before disappearing again. “Adamant. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

            I take a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “It’s not really easy for anyone, is it?”

            “No. It’s not.” Cullen answers quietly. “But you shoulder much of its weight as Inquisitor.”

            It does feel like a weight—heavy as it crushes my lungs. “They’re relying on me.” I bite my lower lip. “And I kept thinking when we were traveling here—what if there was something else I could’ve done to keep us from getting to this point? Maybe if I’d killed Erimond the first time we were in the Western Approach, or if we’d done more research into Corypheus and the Calling, or what if we’d-”

            “Fee,” Cullen cuts me off, putting his hands on my shoulders. “You’ve done everything you can. We were left with little choice to march on Adamant, unless we were willing to let Corypheus have his demon army.”

            “But people are going to _die_ , Cullen. And they followed me to this point. There must’ve been something else I could’ve done.” I feel defeated already in some ways.

            “They followed you willing to give their lives for this cause. They believe that the Inquisition will succeed at Adamant—at stopping Corypheus.” Cullen drops his hands from my shoulders. “I believe we will as well. And we will all follow you to that victory.”

            I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, then look up into honey brown eyes. He must be just as worried, just as apprehensive, as I am, and with lyrium withdrawal on top of it. “Maybe we should both have some elfroot tea before we do anything else.”

            Cullen gives me a small smile. “And have you mistaking a demon for a kitten?”

            “It’s not that bad.” I protest. “Demons are more of the fire and evil cackling type instead of the fluffy and meowing type.”

            Cullen looks unconvinced.

            I sigh loudly. “All right, fine. Let’s just get you some elfroot for that headache. And then, could we go over all the different group’s strategies again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having such a hard time writing this chapter, I almost skipped it entirely to go straight to Adamant. Please feel free to leave comments and constructive criticism (this chapter could definitely use some criticism), or suggestions for future chapters! We're about at the halfway point, so thank you for reading so far. :)


	27. Tearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adamant, the Fade.
> 
> I know this story doesn't have warnings, but this is just a heads up for a pretty dark chapter ahead. If you came here for the fluff, please feel free to skip it.

            Memories that flooded back feel like they’re ripping into the corners of my mind—they fit, but they don’t fit at all.

            Hawke keeps her hand on my arm whenever we’re walking, and though she’s shaking too, it reminds me to take deep breaths and pretend to be calm.

            Then there are spiders.

I’m ready to scream bloody murder, but manage to keep myself under control. Hawke, however, voices my thoughts as she growls, “Why does it have to be spiders?” 

            This is the Fade. In my desperate attempt to reach for something as we were falling off of Adamant’s ramparts, I managed to open a rift and land in the damn fade, taking Dorian, Cassandra, Solas, Hawke, and Stroud with me.

            And of course, there are spiders in the fade, as if this place wasn’t already hellish enough.

            All I can think of is- _get back to Adamant. Support the Inquisition troops. Just stay alive until we get back. Please just stay alive._

            We’ve been following the spirit of the Divine, or an apparition, or whatever it is—Cassandra doesn’t even seem certain. But the fear demon’s smug voice starts in again, and this time with Hawke’s name. Her hand tightens on my arm.

            “Hawke. How does it feel to know you couldn’t protect the people you loved? Like poor Bethany.”

            Hawke’s eyes harden as we slog through the marshy fade landscape.

            The fear demon continues, “And then Carver was next. He may have not died, but you know he hates you for failing him. If you hadn’t brought him into the Deep Roads-”

            “He loves being a Warden, you asshole.” Hawke mutters. “Get your facts straight.”

            There’s that disembodied chuckle that makes my skin crawl. “Does it make you feel better to think of it that way? You remember how your mother felt to have lost two of her children—but then you failed her as well, letting her die in your arms.”

            Hawke stiffens, letting go of my arm to curl her fingers into a fist.

            Cassandra’s eyes flick over to us before she looks ahead again, the others quiet.

            “You couldn’t protect your family before—what makes you think you can do it now?” The demon asks. “Your husband… your daughter… You can’t protect them. Fenris and Helen will die just like-”

            “SHUT UP.” Hawke roars, her voice echoing through the eerie green light, bouncing off of surrounding rocks in the vast emptiness.

            The laughter dissolves into something else—this low, mutated sound.

            More spiders charge at us, and Hawke shouts wordlessly, the ground opening up before us as Cassandra and Stroud hold back, the muddy earth swallowing the demons as they come.

            Hawke has to hold herself up on her staff once the mud claims the things, and we all look at her with wide eyes. Even Solas seems impressed.

            “Varric’s not messing around when he says he doesn’t want to be on your bad side.” Dorian says lightly.

            “No, he’s not.” I mutter. “Let’s go.” I stay close Hawke as we start off again. Hawke looks more than murderous, though her face is pale and her whole body is trembling.

            “I’m going to enjoy killing that demon.” Hawke hisses to me.

            “I will, as well.” Dorian adds evenly.

            It’s not long before I feel the air change, followed by, “Inquisitor.” The fear demon says the title delicately, politely. “Herald of Andraste. _Lady Trevelyan_.”

            “Great. Wonderful.” I say under my breath. “It’s my turn for ‘let’s talk about our worst fears with the friendly demon!’”

            It laughs, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. “Who knows you, Fiona? Who _really_ knows you, Fee?” There’s a sneer in the demon’s voice. “The Inquisition follows you, but they follow you pretending you’re a hero. They think you’re their _savior._ How long until they realize you’re leading them to their deaths?”

            I grind my teeth together, hands tightening on my bow. The others should _not_ be hearing this. Dorian's eyes flick over to me, and Hawke bristles protectively.

            “Oh, you don’t want anyone to know how weak you are. It makes it hard, doesn’t it? Knowing that anyone who loves you will never truly love _you_? Because you will _never_ show them the pathetic, scared, worthless woman underneath all of those titles.”

            Swallowing back a scream, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other as we slog through the marsh. I’m shuddering, though it’s anger building up rather than fear. _Focus. Get out of here. Help the Inquisition. Please let them be alive. Please let them be alive._

            “They’re all dying because of you right now. Dying for the Inquisitor. For _you_. How tragic that the Inquisitor they place all their hope in is just a sad little girl named Fee.”

            “That’s it.” I snarl, feet moving swiftly, stomping, charging. “Congratu-fucking-lations, demon. You made me want to get out of this place even more than I already did. Thanks for that. Anything else you have to say will have to be while I’m killing you.”

            The others have to jog to catch up, but I hear Dorian say quietly, “That’s my girl.”

            “If you’re not afraid of Fee Trevelyan, demon, you should be.” Hawke’s eyes are blazing as she nods at me.

            “Let us be rid of this thing.” Cassandra hisses.

            There’s a horde of spiders approaching us as we make it out of the marsh and up a dry hill. A massive demon stands at the top of it, cloaked with a cowl covering the emptiness of its face, these extra arms, or claws, or whatever the hell they are forming some kind of twisted halo around it.

            I shoot at the demon first as the spiders scatter away from it, toward us. So we fight.

            I’m shaking, furious, desperate, shooting, whirling, with Hawke at my back.

            Cassandra and Stroud defend, throwing the spiders back with their shields, forming a line between them and us. Solas puts up barriers, freezes demons that get to close, and Dorian’s hands dance with lightning, killing the spiders—or whatever horror it is that he sees.

            Hawke and I fight as a unit now—we’ve been together for so long it’s easy to move with her, dancing in and out of the fray, knowing when to step back and when to step between.

            The demon keeps moving, flashing away from us when we’ve injured it, taunting us while it goes.

            The spiders don't stop coming, and I’m trying not to trip over the uneven, rocky ground as I dodge around them.

            Cassandra is surrounded, swarmed, and I keep the spiders off of Dorian as he summons a storm to take them out.

            The horrendous things fall just as I turn with Solas and attack the demon itself.

            Stroud slices through it as well, and it finally, _finally_ bursts into ashes before us.

            My breath is ragged as I do the typical inventory. Three mages, two warriors. All in one piece. And me.

            “The exit. Come on.” I gasp, pointing at the shimmering green field across the rocky terrain.

            Dorian slips his arm around Cassandra’s waist as she limps with him, Solas right behind them.

            Hawke, Stroud and I watch our flank, hurrying as a strange snarling sound begins to make the earth shake around us.

            The others make it through—but legs, too many legs, appear as this _thing_ blocks the green sky from view. I can’t tell if it’s a demon or just a monster straight out of childhood nightmares, but Hawke and Stroud come to a stop behind me as I gape at it. It’s a spider—a fucking massive, fleshy spider.

            A leg comes right toward me and I duck, scrambling back a few steps. “Damn it!” I shriek. We were almost there. We were almost out!

            “We need to clear a path,” Stroud’s face is covered in ash and blood as he looks at me, brandishing his sword.

            “Go.” Hawke meets my eyes. “I’ll cover you.”

            Blood roaring in my ears, I can only blink at her. She’s suggesting… “No. We’ll charge together.”

            “That is not an option.” Stroud answers quickly, looking back at the thing as the world around us shakes. “Hawke, you were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must-”

            Hawke cuts him off firmly. “A Warden must help them rebuild. That’s _your_ job. Corypheus is my responsibility.”

            “Neither of you are staying here!” I yell. “I can try to hold off this thing-”

            “There’s not time to argue, Fee, but you know just as well as I do you can’t stay here. The Inquisition needs you.” Hawke says. There’s a flash of something across her face—warmth. “You can save Thedas, Stroud can rebuild the Wardens.”

            Rock breaks apart as the monster above seems to be ripping apart the fade itself. “I’m not leaving you, Hawke.”

            She throws her arms around me, saying, “Protect Fenris and Helen,” before she pulls away.

            “Hawke.” I feel my eyes filling with tears, throat burning as the monster screeches, a leg swiping at Stroud as he raises his shield just in time.

            “Go. Say goodbye to Varric for me.” Hawke grips her staff tightly as magic begins to charge the air around me. “You’re a damn good Inquisitor, Fee. But you’re also a damn good person.”

            “Hawke-”

            “Go!” She shouts, black hair whipping around her face.

            Stroud grabs my arm and yanks me along as I here Hawke saying, “Spiders. Always the Maker-damned spiders…”

            I can only look over my shoulder once as Stroud pulls me through the glowing green rift, and see Hawke’s small frame shimmering with an aura of power—she looks at me with a grim smile.

            Light explodes behind my eyes and I drop on my knees, back on stone—back in Adamant.

            Inquisition soldiers are fighting demons, and I jump to my feet and throw my hand out, demons exploding as the rift closes behind me.

            I see Captain Roslyn first, as she shouts, “The Inquisitor’s returned!”

            Faces turn to me, cheering. Why are they cheering? I stand with Stroud, the Warden hunched over, holding an arm across his chest.

            “With the Nightmare banished, Corypheus lost both his Warden mages and his demon army.” Stroud says, though I’m not sure if it’s to me or to the Wardens and Inquisition soldiers standing around us.

            I can’t breathe. I can’t… can’t think.

Dorian, and Solas are holding Cassandra up, watching us, faces questioning. _Where’s Hawke?_

“In the stories you soldiers will tell, their Inquisitor broke the spell with the Maker’s blessing.” Stroud murmurs.

            “That’s sure as hell not what happened.” I answer roughly, swallowing hard.

            “Let them have their stories,” Stroud answers.

            “Inquisitor.” It’s Scout Chester who runs up to me, looking wonderfully unharmed. “The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Commander Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself.”

            “Cullen’s alright?” I ask, and Scout Chester nods.

            “As for the Wardens, those who weren’t corrupted helped us fight the demons.” Scout Chester continues, gesturing at the man to his right.

            “We stand ready to help make up for Clarel’s tragic mistake.” The man says, though I want to yell that tragic is not even close to describing Adamant—the wardens—Corypheus. “Stroud—you’re the senior surviving Grey Warden. What do we do now?”

            Stroud looks to me for an answer, and I breathe deeply.

            “Stroud will help you rebuild, and you’ll fight with the Inquisition to fix this mess.” My voice sounds stronger than I anticipated. This can’t be real. It isn’t real. “We have people to protect. People who are in danger because of the mistakes the Order made. You may be vulnerable to Corypheus, but you can still help Thedas. Maker knows we need to have each other more than ever.” I can feel my throat tightening as I speak.

            “Where’s Hawke?” It’s Varric, his coat covered in grime as he makes his way through the soldiers gathered around me.

            Fenris is behind him, streaked with blood as his eyes search for someone I know isn’t here.

            I can’t answer. I’m choking on just the thought. Just the word. Gone.

            “Where is she?” Green eyes hold mine, rough voice demanding that I say, _Right here. She’s fine. She’s safe._ “Where is she?” Fenris rasps, now moving forward. Not stalking—not his usual predatory walk. It’s filled with dread.

            I shake my head. “She… she stayed behind. I’m sorry. There was a demon that blocked the way out, and she… saved us.”

            Fenris grabs my shoulders. “What are you saying?” His gauntlets claw into my skin.

            “I’m sorry, Fenris. Hawke stayed behind in the fade. For us. I’m so… I’m so sorry.” My voice breaks on the last word.

            Just like that, the pressure on my shoulders is gone.

            Fenris is on his knees, white hair hanging into his blank face.

            Varric stares. “No…”

            “I’m sorry.” I breathe. The Inquisition is watching. The Wardens are watching. “Hawke sacrificed herself,” I force myself to say, my mouth tasting like ash. “She is the Hero of Adamant—but so much more. So much…”

            I can’t.

            “Anyone in the Inquisition who’s uninjured, organize the healers and supplies. Uninjured Wardens, keep watch for any demons that remain here and get anyone who's wounded to help.” I order, drowning in the tears building up behind my eyes, the ones I know I can’t let free with the Inquisition watching.

            Fenris’s shoulders are shaking, his head bowed to his chest. He looks lost. The woman he loved is…

            I turn and walk. I don’t know where. Over bodies. Over people I knew. Over demon ash.

            There’s an agonized, broken roar, one of anger, of loss. And I know who it belongs to.

            I clasp a hand over my mouth and run, up and up until I’m at the crumbling remains of Adamant’s battlements. Just bodies here.

            Sobs start escaping, gagging, choking. I’m tearing apart, ripping into a thousand pieces. _I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry._

            “The Inquisitor’s here!” Someone shouts from behind me.

            _No, no. Please, no._

“Go find the others. They should be in the main courtyard.”

            _Cullen._

“But the Inquisitor-”

            “Take care of the wounded.”

            “Yes, Commander.”

            Silent cries, racking my body, palm clasped over my mouth to keep from screaming.

            “Fee.”

            I can’t turn around to face him, but a terrible sob escapes my throat and suddenly he’s in front of me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

            “I’m sorry,” I cry into his blood-stained armor. “I’m sorry.”

            His hand moves to smooth my hair, again and again. Keeping me from tearing entirely. “It’s over. The battle’s over now, Fee.”

            I hold onto him, my head shaking against his chest. “There are bodies. Bodies everywhere. Cullen, I left Hawke behind. I left her behind. I’m so sorry.”

            Cullen lets me cling to him, keeping me pressed against his chest. “I know.” He murmurs. He doesn’t let me go, though I’m broken and my eyes won’t stop streaming with tears.

            _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._ The world is crumbling around me, but Cullen's arms somehow keep me from falling with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sorry! Please don't be too mad for leaving Hawke in the fade!* I've had this chapter planned for a really long time, but writing it was another beast entirely. I'm going to be writing a little companion piece that will be in the same series as this fic, but with Hawke and Fenris. I need some happy Fen/Hawke stuff after this chapter.


	28. Names

            “Stroud’s first report came in as well. The Wardens have reached Weisshaupt safely.” Leliana paces around the war table, her feet making no sound against the stone floor.

            I nod. “We should have an Inquisition envoy travel to Weisshaupt as well, just to keep in communication and watch the Wardens for signs of danger again. Stroud will understand.”

            It’s been two days since we returned to Skyhold, but it feels like I’ve been in some heavy fog since Adamant. _Lead the troops, check on the wounded, write letters to Skyhold for updates, force a laugh with Dorian, tell Cullen I’m fine, fall asleep to dream of more death, wake up covered in sweat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat._

“I have someone in mind for that position,” Cullen says, jerking me from numbing thoughts.

            “Perfect. Could you send word to Stroud?” I ask, meeting his eyes and quirking the corners of my lips up, reinforcing the words I’ve been telling him though I know he doesn’t believe me.

            “Of course.” Cullen answers evenly, though exhaustion is clearly written across his face, in the dark circles under his eyes.

            “Fiona, have you read over the speech for tonight’s memorial?” Josephine finishes scribbling something in her notes.

            The speech—full of ‘my deepest condolences’ and ‘heartfelt sacrifices’—sounds like it couldn’t possibly express Adamant, no matter how pretty the words were. “I did.” I say, attempting to keep my voice light.

            Josephine looks like she wants to say something else, but decides not to at the last second. “All the preparations for the wall have been finished.”

            “Thank you.” My voice is quiet. “Is there anything else?”

            Leliana stops her pacing, standing across from me. “Fenris returned this morning.”

            My eyes flick to hers immediately, breath catching. He’d disappeared after Adamant, not travelling with the troops as we made our way back to Skyhold. Varric didn’t even know where he’d gone.

            “Oh.” I blink, thoughts tumbling around in my mind. _He returned? Of course he did, Helen’s here. Will he leave with Helen soon? Should I even try to face him?_

“He’s with his daughter now.” Leliana continues casually. “He’s avoided detection from others, but Mother Giselle spoke to him briefly when he went to see Helen.”

            “Right.” My lips move without thinking, then my legs follow suit. And I’m walking toward the room where Mother Giselle has been staying—where Helen was taken care of in our absence.

            I realize that I forgot to tell the others that the meeting’s over, but I’m already standing in front of the door to Mother Giselle’s room. I freeze, hand lifted to knock on the wood.

            Why am I even here? What the hell am I supposed to say to the man whose wife is gone because of me? Whose daughter has lost her mother? I couldn’t even look at Helen once we returned.

            “Fenris?” I call softly, almost praying that he won’t hear me.

            But the door pushes open slowly, and I shuffle back as a thin, white-haired elf steps into the hall.

            He stares at me, but it’s not the look I expect.

            He should be angry—looking at me murderously. Instead, his eyes are empty. His cheeks look sunken, like he hasn’t eaten in the last weeks since Adamant, and his armor is in ruin. There’s a bandage wrapped carelessly around his arm, but it’s encrusted with red and brown.

            When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

            Suddenly, I can’t breathe. “Fenris,” I start, but then don’t know how to continue. “You’re hurt. I—you should go to the surgeons. Or at least see a healer.”

            “There is no need.” Fenris rasps back.

            “You look like you’re about to collapse,” I babble, reaching out to his arm. He draws back, shoulders slumping.

            We watch each other, my hand still outstretched before I let it fall to my side. Silence stretches before I hear footsteps from the end of the hall.

            Fenris turns his back on me, walking a few steps before slumping against the wall next to the cradle where the little girl with rosy cheeks and dark hair is sleeping. He slides to the floor.

            I enter the room carefully, throat constricting as I force myself to breathe evenly. The door creaks as I close it, and I stay quiet as the footsteps fade.

            When I face Fenris, he says nothing, only gazing blankly at me.

            “I’m sorry.” I whisper.

            The elf doesn’t even react to my words for a moment. “I should hate you,” Fenris mutters. “ _Venhedis,_ there were moments on my way here I thought of killing you. Of ripping your heart out of your chest as you did mine when you left her in the Fade.”

            There’s the anger I expected. I still flinch at the words, but I know they’re deserved.

            Fenris shakes his head. “But we both knew the risks. I just never thought… it would be her.”

            I swallow hard, stomach twisting. “It shouldn’t have been. I should’ve tried harder to get all of us out.”

            “Would you all be dead then?” Fenris laughs thinly, the sound more of a growl than anything else.

            “Maybe.” I say thickly, because it’s the truth. “I don't know.”

            “Hawke never stopped trying to protect people. It always seemed the more she lost, the harder she fought.” Fenris’s voice is raw. His eyes narrow. “Tell me the truth—could Hawke still be alive in the Fade?”

            I exhale slowly, trying to salvage my fraying nerves. “I spoke with Solas. There’s a chance, but even if… even if she defeated the demon that appeared, there’s no way she could escape on her own. Even if I searched, opening rifts and trying to enter the Fade again, I wouldn’t know where to look. And it would be weakening the veil further.”

            I’d asked Solas the first night on our journey back to Skyhold, and he answered honestly, though gently, as he said he did not think Hawke would ever be able to escape the Fade.

            “Hawke has survived against all odds before,” Fenris shifts his weight, and I notice he doesn’t even attempt to move his injured arm. “If there is a chance for her, she will take it. And I will not stop searching for her until I hear that she is dead or until I see her returned to this world. I only returned so late because I was picking through the ashes of Adamant, looking for traces of the rift. But I have no magic—I am no help to her alone.”

            “I could talk to Solas and Dorian again. But they both very against the idea of creating more rifts.” I understand their warnings, even if it feels like another knife twisting inside me that we’re leaving Hawke there—if she even still lives. Maker, I hate even thinking that she could be more than ‘gone’.

            “There are mages who owe Hawke favors—their lives, and I will see their debts repaid.” Fenris replies darkly.

            I take a steadying breath “Be careful, Fenris. I may not know much about the Fade, but Dorian has told me how dangerous it can be to try to tear the veil and enter physically.” I reach again for his arm, slowly this time, and he does not pull away. I begin unwrapping the bandage, the layers sticking together with the dried blood.

            “You need not warn me of the dangers. I saw first hand the power of Magisters and the consequences of their actions in Tevinter.” Fenris answers bitterly. His eyes seem more alert than before as I finish peeling the bandage away, tossing the thing on the little table in the corner of the room.

            The gash in his arm is swollen and yellowing on the edges—probably infected. I look up at him as calmly as possible. “I can’t say anything to searching for Hawke. Not when she’s stuck there because of me. You’ve heard the only warning I have to give. But this,” I gesture to his arm, “needs attention. Please, Fenris, stay at Skyhold and recover. At least for a few days—see a healer, and rest. I know it’s not much. I… I’m sorry. I know it won’t bring Hawke back, but I’m sorry.”

            Fenris meets my eyes with an unreadable expression, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “We both knew the risks. Yet I never thought that Hawke…” He can’t finish and silence stretches between us.

            “She asked me to protect you and Helen.”

            “Unsurprising,” Fenris murmurs. “Our daughter will be protected—but now it is my turn to protect Hawke.”

            “I hope you find her, Fenris,” I say quietly, though I’m aware that it will be nearly impossible.

            The elf’s lips twist in a wry smile. “As do I.” He moves unstably to the cradle, and I watch Fenris trace his fingers along the baby’s cheek. “But I would not risk my daughter’s life in this task.”

            “You’re leaving her here?” I feel my eyebrows draw together.

            “I have friends back in Kirkwall—they already have children of their own. With Corypheus targeting the Inquisition, they will be safer with Aveline and Donnic.” Fenris says as adjusts the little blanket over Helen.

            If something happens to Fenris while he’s searching for Hawke… I’ll be the one who made the little girl an orphan. Helen yawns and squirms, grabbing Fenris’s finger and holding it to her chest.

            He truly smiles now, though it’s still laced with a heavy sadness.

            _Maker, please let Fenris find Hawke. Please let there be a miracle._

My eyes start to burn again and I turn to leave.

            “Fiona.” Fenris says suddenly.

            I stop, though I keep my back turned to him.

            “Hawke told me once that you reminded her of herself. That you wanted to protect everyone.” Fenris’s tone is low and gravelly. “She said that you would face the reality of losing people soon enough—but when that time came, she would tell you the words that she wished someone had said to her in Kirkwall.”

            I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the wetness on my cheeks.

            “Hawke said you would be devastated when all things fall apart. Because everyone would look to you and expect you to save them all, but you wouldn’t be able to. You’d have to keep being strong, even when you just wanted to hide from the responsibility.” Fenris continues quietly. “But she said that she would tell you not to give up—that there will still be people who need you. That you didn’t fail anyone, even if the guilt brings you dreams of them calling out to you to save them.”

            My face contorts as I struggle to keep silent.

            “And she said she would’ve wanted someone to tell this: keep fighting for the people you love, because even on the darkest days when you want to give up, you will always find the strength to go on.”

            I take a shuddering breath before managing to choke out, “Thank you.”

            I’m not sure if it’s Fenris I’m thanking—it’s also Hawke. It’s very much Hawke.

            There’s a moment where I wipe my face off on the back of my sleeve before I push open the door again. I add without looking back, “There are healers in the courtyard—please see them.”

            One foot in front of another.

            I reach the Great Hall and find that the soldiers, the scouts, the civilians, have already started to gather.

            Josephine’s standing by the wall covered by a massive red sheet, and I walk toward her, knowing my eyes must be bloodshot from crying.

            Thankfully, she doesn’t comment. “You should speak first, before the wall is revealed,” she tells me instead.

            I nod, pulling out the crumpled speech she wrote out of the pocket of my breeches. I stare at the words scrawled across the parchment as people continue to crowd into the Great Hall. I’m not reading—nothing seems to register, time moving sluggishly. The demon’s voice in the fade keeps coming up again and again. _How tragic the Inquisitor they place all their hope in is just a sad little girl named Fee._

            My jaw clenches as my hands curl into fists.

            Josephine announces loudly that this is a remembrance—a memorial for those who bravely fought at Adamant, and a celebration for our victory.

            But even she can’t seem to break through the funeral haze that has all of us in quiet mourning throughout all of Skyhold.

            When she finishes, she tells the people amassed that their Inquisitor has a few words for them as well.

            Right. Me. _They think you’re their savior. How long until they realize you’re leading them to their deaths?_

Damn demon.

            I look out, finding faces that I know. Some I don’t know. Realizing there are some that are permanently gone.

            Josephine clears her throat from beside me, and I realize I haven’t even opened my mouth.

            My eyes dart to the speech before I stick it carelessly back into my pocket again.

            “I don’t have the right words to say,” I start, voice cracking. “How can I… how could I even hope to talk about the people we lost at Adamant?” I swallow before shaking my head and yanking at the ropes holding the red sheet in place. It’s not at the right time, but at the moment I don’t really give a damn.

            I’m furious. Furious at Corypheus for all the death. Furious at myself for not stopping the monster earlier.

            The sheet flutters to the ground, revealing the names engraved on stone—my idea to Josephine when she asked if I wanted to have the names of those we lost.

            “These are the men and women who gave their lives for the Inquisition. Starting with our time in Haven. There are too many names on this wall.” I grit the words out. “When I became Inquisitor, all I wanted was to keep the Inquisition safe from Corypheus.”

            When I look back from the names to the crowd gathered, I meet Cassandra’s eyes first—and notice the way they glisten with anger and held back tears.

            “I can’t promise that more names will not appear on this wall. I wish I could. More than anything.” I look from face to face, taking in the grim reality that the war will see more people taken. And then I see movement from the side of the Great Hall, by the doors—a flash of white hair; an elf, with a little girl held in one arm while the other has a clean bandage wrapped around it.

            _She said that she would tell you not to give up._

            I raise my voice. “But what I can promise, what I swear to you, is this: I will not stop fighting for you. The Inquisition will not stop fighting Corypheus, fighting for what’s right, fighting to protect Thedas.” I’m not sure I even sound like myself—tone stronger, louder, clearer.

            “For every person we lose—for every name that is written on this wall, we will only fight harder. We fight for them, and we do not give up. We fight to protect the people we still have standing with us, and we do not give in.” My hands are shaking, and I’m not sure why anymore.

            Everyone’s staring, but all I feel is the fierce protectiveness for the people standing before me, and rage that we are breaking from the weight of it all. “We know the risks of being with the Inquisition, but I ask that you stand with me to the end. We will not stop fighting until Corypheus is struck down and Thedas is safe again. Until we are no longer writing names on this wall. Until we make the people we love safe again.”

            “Yes!” It’s Bull who roars the answer, and I’m caught between the desire to laugh and cry as there’s a resounding shout that follows, and I’m not sure how it grows into a deafening battle cry.

            It’s not a cheer—there’s not happiness in Skyhold, not yet. There’s anger, and defiance, but there’s also hope.

            _I’m not giving up, Hawke. We’re not giving up._

The haze seems to shatter like glass as people move to the wall, pressing around me as they read the names, trace the carvings with their fingers. They clasp my hand, and I see Fenris from across the room as he weaves his way toward the door. He stops and looks at me. He smiles thinly, only for a moment, and then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, romance coming in strong in the chapters to come! (Finally, right? It's been on the back burner for a few chapters now, sorry about that.)  
> Second, the companion piece about Hawke and Fenris is up and a part of a series now!   
> Third, thank you for reading this far! As per usual, please leave any suggestions or comments. <3


	29. Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            I wind my way up the stairs to the library, happy to find the man I’m looking for with his nose buried in a book, one hand idly twirling the end of his moustache.

            “Dorian,” I whisper, not wanting to disturb some of the mages who are engaged in some heated debate about lyrium only a few feet away.

            The altus raises his head in annoyance, only to smile when he sees me. He puts down his book, quipping, “Fancy meeting you here.”

            I snort. “Like anyone could get you to leave the library while there are still books left to read.”

            Dorian _hmphs_ at me. “Your collection still isn’t as impressive as it ought to be, given all the complaints and suggestions I’ve provided. Though, I doubt you came here to have me rib about your quaint collection of books.”

            _Quaint._ “No, I didn’t.” I plop down next to him on a seat that really isn’t big enough for two people and end up half on Dorian. I do my best to look at him winsomely, batting my eyelashes for good measure. “On a scale of yes to no, how much would you go to the Exalted Plains with me?”

            He laughs at that, dark eyes twinkling as he answers, “It would have to be a resigned yes, accompanied by a sarcastic remark about how I’m looking forward to being poked at by Venatori again.”          

            “Perfect,” I say with a grin. “We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

            Dorian scowls. “I amend my answer on your scale to a ‘You-Owe-Me’ yes with further sarcasm.”

            I pout dramatically for a moment before having an idea. “Would it make you feel better if I asked Bull to come along, too?”

            Dorian coughs loudly. “No, no it would not make me feel better.”

            “Really? Because I’ve heard that Bull’s expressed an interest.” I tap my finger on my chin while swinging my legs over so they’re across Dorian’s lap, ultimately trapping him in the seat.

            “That’s really none of your business.” Dorian answers with an air of haughtiness that is _so_ covering something else up.

            “Mhmm,” I’m enjoying this much more than I should. “And of course, I wouldn’t know at all what it’s like to have someone trying to pry into my personal love life. Not in the slightest.

            “Oh, so this is your petty revenge?” Dorian scoffs at me.

            “Petty? I haven’t even gotten to ask if you’ve had a nice tumble in the dark yet!” I laugh before I stand, no longer taking up all of Dorian’s personal space.

            “So childish,” Dorian mutters, but it’s clear from the way his lips are twitching that he’s not all that upset—and I definitely am not going to push for the details of his… romantic life. Maker, I _so_ don’t want to know the details.

            I stretch, standing on my toes and reaching up until my fingers brush the wood paneled ceiling of the library. “I was planning on inviting Bull to come with us anyway. Is that alright with you?”

            Dorian nods, relaxing in the seat. “I don’t mind. But Fiona…”

            I wait for him to say something, then prompt, “You’re madly in love with Bull? You’ve decided to convert to the Qun?”

            “ _Fasta vass_. Enough with him already!” Dorian says with an exasperation that makes me feel successful in my revenge.

            “Okay, okay. I won’t bring it up again. I can’t see you following the Qun at any rate.” I cross my arms over my chest.

            Dorian sighs deeply. “I suppose I deserve all of this teasing. At any rate, I wanted to say that it’s good to have you back.”

            There’s a kind of strange sadness that puts a small smile on my face. We both know I didn’t go anywhere—not really. But my cheeks had become sunken in the past weeks, almost to the point where I didn’t recognize myself when I passed a mirror. I’d withdrawn so far into myself since Adamant there had hardly been any of Fee left at all.

            But now, with Fenris looking for Hawke and the Champion’s words ringing in my ears… “It’s good to be back.” I answer.

            Dorian’s eyes crinkle. “Now, run along. Don’t you have to get your beauty sleep before leaving at the crack of dawn?”

            “No amount of sleep will make me pretty first thing in the morning,” I retort, but I make my way out of the library.

            Skyhold is a little louder now. A little happier.

            I arrive at my next destination—knock twice and hear an exhausted ‘what?’ from within.

            I push the door open to find Cullen with his shoulders bowed, bent over a report on his desk.

            “Is this a bad time?” I ask tentatively, sticking my head into the room.

            “Hm?” Cullen looks up at blinks tiredly before recognition crosses his face. “Oh! Not at all. It’s good to see you.” He pushes his chair back from his desk to stand.

            “I don’t want to interrupt anything,” I say quickly.

            “No, it’s fine. Ah, more than fine. I was actually hoping you’d come by before you left tomorrow.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck.

            I laugh as I move to the typical (and only) corner of his desk that isn’t cluttered and sit there. “Want some help on those reports, do you?”

            “What? No!” Cullen exclaims quickly, his eyebrows pull together as the typical lines of worry appear across his forehead. “I just… wanted to see how you were feeling.”

            “Fine,” I answer with my go-to response, before remembering one of the reasons I had wanted to come by to speak with him. “Better. I wanted to—to thank you.”

            Cullen frowns. “Thank me?”

            I twist a piece of hair around my finger and study the worn toes of my boots. “For Adamant. And for afterwards as well.” I raise my chin to find Cullen watching me with an expression I don’t quite know how to read. I unwind the strand of hair and steel myself. “I know that you were… already dealing with a lot. And I’m sure I made everything harder with how I handled things in the aftermath.”

            “Fee, you didn’t—”

            “It’s alright, Cullen. I know I was a disaster. I’m sorry. But I’m also really, really thankful that it was you who found me.” I bite my lip and avoid looking him in the eye. “So… thank you. And for the recent weeks—for checking in on me, even when I gave you one-word answers. I should probably apologize for that, too. I didn’t want to worry you further. You already have so much to handle, and—”

            Cullen’s hand is suddenly on my cheek, and I suck in a breath of surprise as I find myself staring into the amber and honey eyes. “Fee.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for.” His thumb traces the scar along my jaw, and I realize what’s in his expression—warmth. And then I feel it running over my skin, but it strangely leaves goosebumps in its wake. _Maker’s Balls, why is my heart beating so fast?_

            I blurt, “I hardly think that’s true.”

            Cullen smiles that lopsided smile and for some reason, I feel a little out of breath. “I suppose you could be sorry for not letting me worry about you. What was it you told me? ‘It’s not worrying, it’s caring.’”

            “Using my own words against me,” I grumble under my breath, though really my thoughts are incredibly muddled but also sharply clear. _Cullen._

“So we can care about each other.” Cullen says softly. “If there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask.”

            The demon’s voice laughs in my ear. _Because you will **never** show them the pathetic, scared, worthless woman underneath all of those titles._

            I feel the familiar tightness forming in my throat. I don’t know how to ask. “I…”

            There’s a rather loud knock on the door followed by a scout bursting into Cullen’s office. The commander immediately drops his hand away from my face, and I practically spring away from him at the suddenness of his movement.

            “Commander! A report from Hinterlands.” The Scout says, shuffling forward to give Cullen a letter, completely oblivious (or maybe hopefully oblivious) to my incredibly flushed face as I duck my head.

            “Thank you,” Cullen says sharply.

            “Ser!” The Scout thumbs his chest before leaving as abruptly as he came.

            The room is silent as I scratch the back of my head. “Um.”

            “If this is about that Maker-Forsaken druffalo…” Cullen grumbles, and I look up, trying to ignore the warmth in my cheeks.

            “A bet?” I ask quickly, before he can open it. “If it’s not about the druffalo, we go to the Herald’s Rest and you postpone doing work for the night. If it, somehow, _is_ about the druffalo, I’ll stay here and help until all the reports are read through, sorted, and answered.”

            Cullen raises his eyebrows. “An odd bet.”

            “You could use a break.” I answer with a grin, finally feeling my heart return to the normal speed now that Cullen is no longer close enough where I can smell the sandalwood, pine, and armor oil that lingers on his skin. _Andraste’s tits, Fee, pull it together._ “Deal?” I ask, but I think I sound a little squeaky.

“Deal.” Cullen seems just to be humoring me, but he unfolds the letter, eyes moving along the page, before he lets out a surprised huff. It turns into a chuckle, and he hands the report to me.

            I glance over the first few sentences, which are a passive-aggressive reminder that the man’s beloved druffalo is still missing. “Well, shit.” I laugh. “Let’s get started. After all, Dorian told me I needed to get my beauty sleep.”

 

           


	30. Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frostbacks.

            “Good girl. Pretty girl.” I pat Trinn’s neck, letting her nuzzle against me before turning back to the camp we’re setting up. And then I wonder if I’d rather just sleep with the horses.

            That’s a slight overstatement. But as I watch Blackwall deposit a pile of wood into the fire, I feel another surge of annoyance that he’d wanted to come along with Dorian, Bull, and I. He’d asked me out of nowhere if he could accompany us to the Exalted Plains- something that caught me completely off guard.

            And of course, I’d been too flustered to say no.

            We attempted to make small talk today—very stilted small talk. The awkwardness is palpable.

            Since our conversation in the Western Approach, we’d maintained a stiff professionalism, and mostly I’d just avoided him. I suppose that’s my go-to tactic. Avoid and if that doesn’t work, spit out some ‘Hi, how are you? I’m fine, thanks’ and then run.

            It’s very mature. 

            I roll my shoulders back before walking over to where Dorian’s attempting to set up a tent. Bull’s standing back and laughing.

            “You are—” Dorian pants with a grimace, “—completely and utterly frustrating. You could very easily—come help me instead of—sitting there uselessly.”

            I give an eyebrow raise to Bull before helping Dorian with the tent. “It doesn’t feel like a storm is coming any time soon,” I tell Dorian.

            The altus steps back from the tent and I yelp as the skins fall on me, grimacing dramatically. “ _There’s going to be a downpour tonight, Dorian_.” Dorian growls in a poor imitation of Bull’s voice.

            Bull throws his head back and roars with laughter as Dorian gives him a look of disgust. “Quit giving me the stink-eye, Dorian.” Bull says deeply when he takes a moment to breathe.

            “The skies have been clear since we left Skyhold this morning,” I tell Dorian as gently as I can, trying not to giggle at his expression. “And there’s not exactly been a change in the air or in the cloud movement.”

            Dorian wrinkles his nose. “Well, not all of us grew up running amuck in the woods, thank you very much.”

            “Of course, some of us were too busy being civilized and sipping tea to learn the basics of weather.” I snort.

            “It’ll still be cold enough for frost to appear on the grass,” Blackwall’s voice reminds me that he’s here.

            I guiltily turn to face him, not intentionally ignoring him before. “Hope you brought thick socks,” I say lamely, trying not to cringe at my own words.

            Blackwall chuckles, but the sound is empty. “I’ll go get more firewood. I’d prefer to wake up with all my fingers still moveable.”

            “No arguments there,” I reply. “Thank you.”

            He nods before leaving us, his boots crunching across the woodland floor as he goes.

            When I look back at Dorian and Bull, Dorian raises an eyebrow.

            “What?” I frown, already having a feeling that he’s going to poke at my ruined relationship with Blackwall.

            Surprisingly, it’s Bull who comments, “I thought after all the shit you two have been through, you’d have worked yourselves out by now.”

            I blink at the Qunari, momentarily taken aback. “I… um… It’s not like… we have nothing to work out.”

            Dorian snorts. “Right. Try saying that again with a little more assurance.”

            “It’s not worth it,” I grouch irritably, turning my back on them to gather the tent skins that Dorian left in a messy pile. I can already feel heat rising to my cheeks with the humiliation of this conversation.

            “This, my dear girl, is an example of why we were all so worried after Adamant. You are an expert at pushing people away.” Dorian squats down next to me.

            “Can we _not_ have this conversation right now?” I snap.

            “Just pretend I’m not here, if that helps,” Bull puts in, making me huff in frustration.

            “Another example,” Dorian points at me, his finger touching my nose. “This very moment. I, however, am not as easily deterred as others.”

            I open my mouth to say something—probably, ‘screw off’, but clamp it shut at the last second and lean backward to flop on my ass. I take a deep breath, only to let it out just as slowly. “I’m sorry, Dorian.”

            “Apology accepted.” Dorian pats my head patronizingly and says pompously, “Now, you have two options. We can either sit here and go through the timeline of how you became this closed off, or you can go help a certain mopey Warden collect firewood and stop being so damn ill at ease with him.”

            I wince. “It’s that bad?”

            “You bet, Boss,” Bull grins at me—somehow delighting in my misery.

            “Even if you two don’t throw yourselves at each other—and I’m definitely not encouraging that—you do have to work together within the Inquisition.” Dorian says evenly.

            “Logic. Reason. Ugh.” I wrinkle my nose at him.

            Dorian rolls his eyes at me. “How old are you again?”

            I stick my tongue out at him before standing and flouncing off in the direction that Blackwall went. The trees are too close together, branches brushing across my armor or hitting me in the face, and my flounce quickly turns into trying to avoid getting anything poky in my eye.

            I find the Warden in a little clearing, stooping to add a dry piece of wood to the little pile in his arms.

            Wordlessly, I start picking through the clearing as well, finding a few branches of my own or smaller twigs we can use for kindling. The rush I felt earlier leaving Dorian is gone now. “I think we might have enough now,” I say into the quiet.

            Blackwall grunts his agreement, but neither of us move.

            “My lady-”

            “Blackwall-”

            We both break off and I try to say lightly, “We have a habit of doing that, don’t we?”

            Blackwall doesn’t smile, just bows his head. “I want to apologize. For leaving with Stroud after we scouted the Western Approach.”

            I shift my grip that I have on the wood, thinking of how exactly I should respond to that. I settle on a muted, “Oh.”

            Eloquent as always. 

            “It was… cowardly of me. I thought it would be better if you didn’t see me—if I left quietly for a while.” Blackwall continues almost gruffly.

            “Better if I didn’t see you?” I echo back. “I mean, it’s just as awkward now as it would’ve been then.” _And as Dorian pointed out, I can’t avoid you forever._

Blackwall doesn’t look at me as his eyes turn hard. “I didn’t make myself into a man that you would have wanted at your side.”

            “Bullshit.” I say immediately, almost angrily. “You’re one of the most loyal, trustworthy men I know.”

            “My lady, don’t.”

            I grit my teeth together for a moment before forcing my jaw to relax, frustration ebbing away. “Fine. But… you should know that I didn’t… I didn’t not want you to be around because I didn’t want you at my side. If that makes sense. It probably doesn’t.”

            That gets a small smile out of him, his beard twitching. He really was being mopey before. “I know for months now I've been pushing you away-”

            “I think I’ve done my fair share of that as well,” I admit before giving a short laugh. “What a pair we are.”

            “Indeed.” Blackwall answers—he’s smiling, but his voice is low.

            This is as much as I can talk about before I have to start dealing with… feelings. Which I definitely don’t want to deal with. “What’s next? Are we going to have a competition about who’s the most ‘fine’ with the situation?” I ask, plastering a smirk on my face.

            Blackwall snorts. “Only after another sparring match. By the time we reach the Exalted Plains, I’d like you to be able to use a dagger to avoid getting your head chopped off. Makes defending you a little easier.”

            “I keep telling you, I would’ve rolled away in time!” I would wave my hands around for emphasis if I wasn’t still carrying the stupid firewood, fake smirk instantly replaced with indignation.

            “Maker’s Balls, you’ll never admit you were within an inch of losing your head, will you?” Blackwall mutters under his breath.

            I wiggle my eyebrows. “Never.”

            We banter as we walk, and there’s an unspoken uneasiness I can feel in the pit of my stomach. But I’m also grateful to Dorian for being obnoxious and pushing me to say _something_.

            Because it’s so much easier to push people away than it is to let them in. And as Blackwall rumbles about not wanting my cooking tonight for fear of his health—I think that sometimes, there are people you want to trust who are worth letting in a little bit closer. 

            “It was not poisonous!” I protest loudly, but I’m grinning all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're Back in Black(wall)! Terrible puns aside, thank you for reading this far!


	31. Holding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            “I thought you _liked_ the undead, Dorian,” Blackwall says as we enter the stables with our horses.

            Dorian shakes his head. “Not when they’re attacking me for bloody weeks. Fiona, next time you need to drag someone along to the Exalted Plains, count me out.”

            “You mean you didn’t have the time of your life?” I ask innocently. The sky outside the stables is turning dark, the last traces of an orange sunset peeking through the rafters.

            Bull claps me on the shoulder. “After you got us all lost in the second week, Dorian was ready for a mutiny.”

            “Perish the thought. Me? Lost?” I press my hand over my heart as I pass Trinn off to Dennet with a final kiss pressed to the horse’s forehead.

            “They didn’t make you Inquisitor for your keen sense of direction, that’s for certain.” Blackwall chuckles under his breath.

            “Well if any of _you_ would like to make a nice little map of the Exalted Plains for the next time we go—”

            “Not going back.” Dorian interrupts as we head out of the stables.

            “Right, right.” I grin at him. “Poor necromancer is scared of all the big bad undead.”

            Dorian sighs. “Yes, yes. I don’t like the way they smell or when they’re charging at me with bits falling off of themselves.”

            “Appetizing,” Bull comments. Then, “Speaking of appetites, Dorian—”

            “Nope. Nope, nope.” I wrinkle my nose at them.

            “What’s so wrong with dinner?” Bull looks at me, his face blank.

            “Oh.” I scratch the back of my head, face heating. “Oh. That’s not what I… Yeah, dinner’s great.”

            Bull turns to Dorian. “After dinner is when we have some other hungers to see to. We’ve had to be so quiet the last few weeks, I’m—”

            “Andraste’s Ass, you two!” I huff, glaring at them. “Have your reports ready for the advisors tomorrow morning.”

            I’m grimacing as I hurry toward the kitchens, not wanting to overhear anymore of their plans and leaving Blackwall to deal with them.

            The warmth of the kitchens thaws the chill in my cheeks as I grab a basket and place two apples in it, along with a few slices of bread from a loaf one of the cooks just pulled out of the oven. I may have burned my fingers a bit—but I really want to check in with a certain Commander.

            I’m back in the cold again in only a few minutes, swinging the basket as I go straight toward the stairs to the ramparts, climbing them quickly.

            My armor is dirt streaked, and I’m sure I don’t smell anything like roses, but I figure Cullen’s already seen (or smelled) it all anyway.

            The door to his office is open, but there’s just a scout standing there.

            “Is Commander Cullen out?” I question intelligently—he must be, after all.

            The scout is actually the man who interrupted the odd moment between Cullen and I—he must be responsible for brining messages to Cullen. “Yes, Inquisitor. He and Lady Cassandra are meeting in the smith.”

            “Ah. Thank you.” I stand in the doorway for a few moments, feeling a pang of disappointment. “I’ll just… leave this here, then.” I step inside and place the basket on Cullen’s desk.

            I suppose it’s good that he’s not here or in the War Room—it feels like those are the only places he’s ever in. _So he’s out with Cassandra! That’s great!_

            Crestfallen, I leave his office and head back down the stairs.

            “It hurts.”

            I jump in surprise, nearly trip, and catch myself only to find Cole standing right behind me at the base of the steps.

            “Cole! Maker, you scared me.” I press a hand over my chest, scanning him for injuries. “Where are you hurt? Did Vivienne do something? Because I swear, if she’s said anything else to you, I might just—”

            “Not me. Him. The bad song is too clear, and it _hurts._ She’s been gone for weeks, with bright green eyes gone away, too.” Cole shakes his head, big hat flopping around in the darkness. “The song sings so loudly, and she’s not here to soften it. _I can’t… I can’t… Forgive me_.”

            “What’s the bad song, Cole?” I ask, peering at him from under his hat. “Who is it hurting?”

            Cole’s head keeps bobbing back and forth. “He can’t anymore. It’s too much. He wants to be free, but it’s too much. He’ll never be free now.”

            “Who…” I break off. The bad song—too much—lyrium.

            Cole whispers, almost gasping, “Please make it stop. Make the bad song go away. It’s _hurting_ him.”

            _Cullen._

            I take off at a run toward the smith. How bad did the withdrawal get?

            Cassandra’s voice carries as I see the firelight dancing in shadows through the doorway.

            And then I hear Cullen. “If I am unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this. Would you rather save face than admit—”

            I skid into the smith, stopping abruptly as Cassandra and Cullen turn to look at me.

            His face is sickly white, his eyes over bright—fever. The bags under his eyes travel down to where his cheekbones stand out too prominently. I suck in a breath as he bows his head.

            “Forgive me,” Cullen says quietly, immediately stepping past me. _Forgive me._

“And people say I’m stubborn. This is ridiculous.” Cassandra snaps, her arms crossed as she watches Cullen’s back fade into the darkness. “It’s good to see you’ve returned, Fiona.”

            “It’s good to be back.” I feel my eyebrows pull together. “Is Cullen…?”

            “Cullen told you that he’s no longer taking lyrium, did he not?” Cassandra shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking tired but every bit a steely as ever.

            It is the lyrium. Shit. “Yes, he did.” I try to say calmly.

            Cassandra frowns. “He has asked that I recommend a replacement for him. I refused. It’s not necessary.” She lets her arms fall by her side and admits, “Besides, it would destroy him. He’s come so far.”

            “So… he’s thinking about taking lyrium again? After everything he’s gone through?”

            Cassandra sighs sharply. “If anyone can change his mind, it’s you.”

            “How? If this is hurting him…” _The bad song is too clear, and it hurts._

            “Mages have made their suffering known, but Templars never have.” Cassandra says in a low voice. “They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash.” She nods to me. “Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself—and anyone who would follow suit—that it’s possible. He can do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall. Talk to him. Decide if now is the time.”

            I bite my lip. “Cassandra, I don’t know what I can say. You know better than I do about this. About the Order, and lyrium, and...”

            “Cullen?” Cassandra shakes her head. “You know him best, Fiona. And I… am not known for my empathetic ways. He will not want to see me now.”

            _Please make it stop._

I rub my nose with the back of my hand before hurrying out of the smith, back from where I just came. Cole is gone, though I wonder if he’s close by, hearing the same pull of lyrium, feeling the headaches, watching the nightmares. The scout who had been in Cullen’s office passes me.

            I take two stairs at a time, hopping up to get to Cullen’s office faster, and make it through the open door just as something flies at my head.

            There’s just enough time for me to raise my arm and cover my face as glass shatters around me.

            “Maker’s Breath! I didn’t hear you enter. I—” Cullen’s voice makes me look up, and I’m still flinching from the shower of broken glass pieces. He ducks his head again, candlelight casting strange light over features, making his eyes look almost sunken. “Forgive me.”

            I try to shake off the shock with an attempt of a smile, moving around the glass so I don’t get any stuck in my boots. “Well, unless you _were_ trying to throw random boxes at me, which would just be very poor aim on your part, you don’t need to be apologizing.”

            “No,” Cullen starts to step toward me. “I swear I didn’t know you were—” He breaks off as he stumbles, catching himself on his desk with a grunt of pain.

            “Cullen!” I close the distance between us and grasp one of his arms. I can _feel_ how warm he is just from standing in front of him.

            He won’t meet my eyes as he murmurs, “I never meant for this to interfere.”

            “Screw interfering with anything,” I answer immediately. “You’re burning up.” My free hand goes to his forehead, his skin hot to the touch. “This… are you going to be alright?”

            “Yes.” Cullen pulls away from me, staggering slightly. His voice is barely audible as he adds, “I don’t know.”

            “We need to get you to a healer. I can ask Solas—”

            “You asked me what happened to Ferelden’s Circle.” Cullen says abruptly.

            I watch him with confusion. “I did.”

            “It was taken over by abominations. The Templars—my friends—were slaughtered.” His breathing is too irregular, hitching as he turns to the little window slit against the back wall and looking out into the night. “I was tortured.”

            A shiver runs down my spine as he continues.

            “They tried to break my mind, and I—how can you be the same person after that?” He demands, voice almost a growl. “Still, I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness.”

            I realize I stopped breathing, my heart hammering inside my chest listening to him—the anger rolling off of him like his fever.

            “Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.” His eyes are blazing, face twisted in a grimace as he asks, “Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

            “Yes, I can. You don’t have to—”

            “Don't.” He bites out, and I flinch again, this time away from him. But he puts his hand over his face as his voice softens. “You should be questioning what I’ve done. I thought this would be better,” he paces now, and I forget yet again to breathe. “That I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me!” His pace quickens.

            _He’s going to collapse. Oh, Cullen._ I’m ignoring how hard it is to swallow.

            “How many lives depend on our success? I _swore_ myself to this cause.” He seethes. “I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it.”

            I grit my teeth to try to keep what little composure I have left, watching him feverishly stop his pacing as he slams his fist into the bookshelf, the wood creaking and books falling. “ _I should be taking it_.”

            He stands there, his shoulders hunched and knuckles white against the shelf. And I can feel it—tearing, breaking, world falling apart. I don’t know what it feels like to hear the lyrium so loudly, to have it hurt so much, burning me from the inside-out. But I know how it feels to have the ground wrenched out from under my feet, falling into nothing.

            His whole frame is shaking.

            I step over to him, taking a shuddering breath as I slowly reach to touch his arm. “Cullen, you’re…” I break off as my voice catches, squeezing my eyes shut. “Do you want this? To take lyrium again?”

            “I…”

            My eyes fly open. “I’m not asking you as the Commander. And I’m not asking the ex-Templar, either. Because you’re so much more than an Inquisition leader, or a man who watched two circles fall. I’m asking _you._ Cullen Rutherford, swordsman, chess-player, brother who doesn’t send letters enough, report-writer extraordinaire, never a diplomat, recipient of terrible and accidental innuendo,” I squeeze his arm as tears threaten to spill over and a laugh that’s more of an exhale escapes my lips. “Is this what you want?”

            His eyes lock with mine—burning, angry. But they soften. Still red-rimmed and framed by sleeplessness, but honey, warm, and tired. His fist drops from the bookshelf.

            “No.” He breathes. “But… these memories have always haunted me—if they become worse,” Cullen whispers, “if I cannot endure this…”

            “You can. You _will_.” I reach to cup his face with unsteady hands, smoothing my thumbs along the too-sharp lines of his cheeks, over stubble that scrapes against my skin. I hold him close, carefully, gently, protectively, desperately. “I know I can’t ever really understand. And I—I can’t take the memories away. Or the pain, the fever, the dreams… but I’ll be here. I’ll be right here to tell you that you can do this every time you lose faith in yourself. Even when it’s hard.”

            Cullen leans into my touch, his eyes falling closed. “Alright.” He breathes out, his lips pulling into the ghost of a smile.

            Blind relief rushes through me, and I didn’t notice how every muscle in my body was tensed until I relax now. And I also notice that I’m holding his face very close to my own, heart still beating too fast even though I _should_ be just calm and relieved. I let my hands fall, clearing my throat. My ears might be red. “Right. Yes.”

            Cullen rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing—probably because I’d been very much in his personal space.

            And—“Damn it, your fever!” I practically shout. “You need to see a healer. Now.”

            “I—ah—there’s no need. It will pass.” Cullen’s voice has returned to its usual pitch, and he looks faintly embarrassed.

            I frown at him. “You also haven’t been eating since I’ve been gone, have you? I swear, if I didn’t bring you food, you’d simply sit at your desk all day with your stomach growling and— Aha!” I see the basket I’d brought up earlier sitting right where I’d left it on top of a stack of papers. “Dinner.” I lunge for it, producing an apple and shoving it at him.

            Cullen blinks at me.

            “Food. Healer.” I say pointing at him and then to the vague direction of Solas in the tower.

            “Fee, you don’t need to worry.”

            “Caring!” I exclaim, tapping my finger on his chest. “Caring, remember?”

            He chuckles softly. “I’ll eat the apple, but there’s no need for a healer.”

            I cross my arms. “The apple _and_ the bread, and we can talk about the healer after you’ve finished them.”

            Cullen tilts his head to the side. “Are we bargaining? I didn’t realize you’d picked this up from Josephine.”

            “Oh, it’s not a bargain.” I answer, raising an eyebrow.

            “Maker, we have a tyrant for an Inquisitor.” Cullen smirks at me, hollow cheeks looking like they belong to _him_ again.

            I grin back, ignoring the strange lurch in my stomach that accompanies that oh-so-Cullen half-smile.

        


	32. Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

            “No, no. Start again.” Vivienne waves her hand in my face and for a split second, I honestly consider biting it.

            “I told you that someone else should go to the Winter Palace,” I glare at her before looking back at Josephine, who’s in the corner of my room on the bench, scribbling down notes. Of all the people in Skyhold Josephine could’ve asked to teach me dance, she chose Madame de Bitchy. And we’ve been practicing for hours.

            I’m learning to have an iron-will more than anything else.

            When Josephine doesn’t say anything, I turn my gaze to Leliana and hope that I appear as pitiful as I feel.

            “Gaspard’s invitation was extended to you, Fiona. The others and myself can only go because the Inquisitor is attending.” Leliana seems amused by my suffering.

            “Can’t I just go and tell everyone I don’t dance?” I take the opportunity to yank at the heavy skirts of the dress Josephine squeezed me into this morning. “And why do I have to wear a dress that weighs as much as I do?”

            “It’s very flattering.” Leliana says, tilting her head to the side. “I’m glad we went without bows or ruffles, though. We didn’t think they’d suit you.”

            Bows and ruffles definitely do not suit me—I think anyone would be surprised to see me out of my leather armor and boots.

            The dress, admittedly, looks pretty, if a bit dramatic. The front of it does a good job of hiding the fact that I don’t have much cleavage to work with, instead opting for a high neckline that twists around my neck, avoiding straps or sleeves. The dress is backless as well, scooping to my waist where it’s cinched with laces, my chalky pale skin peeking through. Then as it hits my hips, the heavy skirts begin, weighing me down and constantly tripping me.

            So it’s pretty, but incredibly impractical.

            “I think just wearing the Inquisition’s nice uniforms might be a better option.” I stomp a few times on the hem of the dress.

            “On the contrary, my dear, the dress gives an air of beauty and dignity. And you need to appear dignified. Powerful.” Vivienne’s eyes narrow as she looks me up and down.

            I frown. She says ‘beauty’ now, but this morning she’d been saying, _“If only your nose was less prominent, my dear’_ while scrutinizing the rest of my features.

            I inherited the Trevelyan nose from my father and my grandfather. It’s a family thing. So there.

            “I don’t think I’ll look dignified or powerful when I’m flailing around with my two left feet,” I sigh. “We’re leaving tomorrow, and I’m still stepping on Vivienne’s toes.”

            Vivienne replies with her perfectly demeaning tone, “Yes, and it’s taking up quite a bit of my patience, dear.”

            _I’m going to intentionally stomp on her pretty little shoes next time, Maker. I swear it._

“You’re not getting out of this,” Leliana says with a laugh. “And you’re not doing… too badly.”

            “For a Spymaster, you’re a terrible liar,” I mutter under my breath.

            The red-head smiles impishly at me, looking younger and somehow softer.

            “Now, let’s begin again. The count is _one_ -two-three, _two_ -two-three…” Vivienne continues and I hoist up my skirts to attempt to watch my feet.

            “You do not need to watch your missteps,” Vivienne quips breezily.

            I grind my teeth together and drop my skirts again, the black fabric brushing against the floor. I think the laces of the stupid dress are keeping me from breathing properly.

            There’s a knock on the door, and I keep dancing with Vivienne as she drones, “ _One-_ two-three, turn, no—the other way.”

            “Oh. Forgive me, I didn’t know I was interrupting.”

            It’s Cullen’s voice, and I drop Vivienne’s hands and exclaim, “Cullen! Urgent business? Reports I didn’t finish?” I rush over to him, tripping on my skirts in the process and stumbling a bit. “Some druffalo we can go find?”

            The commander looks perplexed at my questions, but there’s also red creeping into his cheeks. “I—ah—no.” He blinks at me. I wonder for a moment if I have something on my face.

            “She looks lovely, doesn’t she?” Leliana asks with a smirk. “She’s trying to get out of dance lessons.”

            “Not at all. Just trying to be a responsible Inquisition leader.” I retort, before looking back at Cullen eagerly. “Did Sera kick someone in the balls again?”

            “Oh, my!” Josephine gasps, and I snort.

            Cullen seems to have tracked down whatever thought he lost. “Nothing of the sort. I can just… come back later when you’re not busy.”

            I panic, realizing my ‘out’ isn’t an out at all. “Wait,” I say quickly, trying to conjure up some sort of excuse. “Leliana, won’t Cullen be going to the Winter Palace as well?”

            She nods. “Yes, he will.”

            “And doesn’t that mean he’ll have to dance, too?”

            Leliana’s smirk broadens into a smile. “He won’t have to for the sake of The Game, but for the Inquisition’s reputation, it would be—”

            “Maker’s Breath,” Cullen immediately takes a step back. “I don’t dance.”

            “No time like the present to learn then, right?” I prompt, watching him give me a look of betrayal before saying, “Unless there’s urgent business the both of us need to attend to. In which case, we couldn’t possibly stay for dance lessons.”

            “My dear,” Vivienne begins impatiently.

            Cullen actually laughs, though it sounds like relief. “Ah, yes. I suppose there are… very urgent matters that need your attention.”

            “Excellent,” I loop my arm through his and risk a glance back at the trifecta of dance misery.

            Vivienne’s glaring, Leliana is stifling a giggle, and Josephine is shooing us away. And I’ve never seen Leliana get close to giggling before.

            “We’ll have to put our faith in Fiona’s wit,” Josephine sighs.

            I half-drag Cullen out of my room. “Wit is better than dancing with two left feet,” I declare to no one in particular.

            I’m so focused on getting as far away as possible from Vivienne that I don’t even stop until Cullen and I are walking up the stairs of the ramparts, toward his office. And I again step on my skirts multiple times.

            I let go of my grip on his arm as we reach the top, which admittedly I was keeping for balance as to not fall flat on my face when I tripped on my dress.

            “Sorry, Cullen. I promise I didn’t plan on forcing you into the dance-lesson-hell of Madame de Fer.” I say sheepishly. I think I’ve been running on sheer force of will and anger-induced adrenaline all of today trying not to scream at Vivienne.

            Cullen shakes his head with a smile. “I suppose I could’ve found more reports for you to read over to keep you busy today.”

            The sun is warm on the top of the ramparts despite the cool air, I pull on the bodice of my dress. “I’d take a thousand more reports over hearing ‘ _one_ -two-three, _two_ -two-three’ one more time.” I imitate Vivienne’s voice as best I can before sighing. “So what was it you actually needed me for?”

            An Inquisition messenger passes by, and Cullen clears his throat before taking a few steps toward the tower, further from his office, and stops to overlook that terrifying plummet down. _How people enjoy heights like this, I have no idea._

            “I wanted to thank you.” He says, and it hits me that we’ve let silence stretch between us. A surprisingly comfortable silence. “When you came to see me… if there’s anything…”

            Cullen’s hand goes to the back of his neck again as he turns to look at me, and I realize he’s talking about his lyrium withdrawal. I’d been so busy over the last week, I hadn’t had time to see him again other than in passing or around the war table. Which of course, is when I’d scrutinized him to see if his hands were shaking less, and was relieved to note there was some color returning to his cheeks. Today, he looks more tired than usual—probably in preparing for the Winter Palace. But his voice, though soft, is stronger. Not as scratchy.

           “This sounded much better in my head,” Cullen finishes.

            I realize I’ve just been staring again, and ask, “Are you feeling better?” Even his eyes are less blood-shot.

            “I—yes.” Cullen says.

            I nod at the confirmation, but feel my lips twisting. “Is it going to get that bad again?”

            “The pain comes and goes.” Cullen answers quietly. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there.”

            There? _Ferelden’s tower? Kirkwall?_ The man has too many horrific experiences.

            “I should not have pushed myself so far that day.” Cullen’s eyes move away from me, fixing on nothing in the distance.

            “We’ll have to find you some time-off.” I give him a small smile, which he returns. “I’m just glad you’re alright, Cullen.”

_You scared me half to death, but I’m so incredibly glad you’re alright._

“I am.” Cullen turns to the drop of doom, and I attempt to face it as well. “I’ve never told anyone what happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle.” The admission makes me stop worrying about the plummet over Skyhold’s walls, and I instead find myself focusing entirely on Cullen—the warmth in his tone, the way the wind ruffles his ridiculous coat.

            “I was… not myself after that.” He says quietly. “I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. I’m not proud of the man that made me. Now I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened. It’s a start.”

            “It is.” I nod, more to myself than to anyone else. A breeze raises the hair on the back of my neck and I wrap my arms around myself. “And… You may not be proud of who you became, but I am. And I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, or what it took to make it to who are today.” What am I even trying to say? “But I like who you are. Now,” I blurt. Why does it feel like my heart is hammering on my ribcage? Do I have goose bumps? It’s not _that_ cold. It’s…

            Cullen stares. “Even after…?”

            “After?”

            “You can’t exactly see me in the best light after knowing what I...” Cullen’s voice drops, and again he looks away.

            I’m incredulous as I answer, “Of course even after! Andraste’s ass, Cullen, you haven’t seen me in the best light either. Out of everyone in the Inquisition, you’ve been there at all my worst moments here. After Adamant, when everything was breaking apart—”

            _It’s not easy to fall in love when the world’s breaking apart around you. But if you find someone who reminds you that love is possible, who reminds you of who you are, who makes you feel like there’s still ground beneath your feet and a future in worth fighting for… don’t let that pass you by._

            Hawke’s words come back to me so suddenly, I think my mouth actually drops open. “I… You were there.”

            It hits me, really, actually hits me, and I think I stop breathing. He’s looking at me with so much _warmth_ and I feel it running over my skin, like everything in all of Thedas is going to be alright.

            _Words! Words! Why can’t I think of any?_

“Oh.”

            _Does that even count as a word?_

Cullen’s eyes are locked with mine as he takes a step forward. “Fee, I don’t know if you… that is if you…”

            “Yes.” I say suddenly, only half aware that I don’t know exactly what I’m saying ‘yes’ to.          

            “It seems too much to ask,” Cullen whispers. “But I want to—”

            His hands move to my waist, to the stupid fabric of the stupid black dress. But it doesn’t matter because he’s leaning in and my eyes are closing and—

            “Commander!”

            _ANDRASTE’S SAGGY TITS._

Cullen steps back just as the door from his office opens and with an incredibly hot face, I stare off in the opposite direction.

            “You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.”

            When I glance over, I see that it’s the same scout who burst into Cullen’s office before I left for the Exalted Plains.

            _Damn him._ I think I’m actually more furious now with him than I was with Vivienne.

            The scout looks up again and I quickly turn away, cheeks still burning.

            “What?” Cullen snaps.

            “Sister Leliana’s report? You wanted it delivered ‘without delay’.” The scout reminds the commander.

            There’s several moments of silence, in which I cringe, anger giving way to embarrassment.

            “Or… to your office,” the quiet response comes, followed by the door to Cullen’s office squeaking open and closed again.

            I’m still wincing as I twist a piece of hair around my finger. “If you have actual reports—”

            But then Cullen’s hands are on my waist again, and I only have a moment to look at him in surprise before he leans in to kiss me.

            And I melt.

            He’s so warm. And somehow urgent. Like if Cullen didn’t kiss me now, we’d lose the chance.

            And it’s that thought that makes me reach, fingers tugging on his coat, not wanting to let go of him any time soon.

            He pulls back slowly, his forehead resting against mine. “I’m sorry,” Cullen says softly. “That was… um... really nice.”

            “Don’t be sorry.” I wrap my arms around his neck. My cheeks hurt, and I realize I’m doing a terrible job at holding back a grin.

            Relief seems to wash over Cullen’s face. “Then… this is what you want?”

            “You? Yes.” I almost laugh at the simplicity of it. “Now please just kiss me again, Cullen Rutherford, or I might have to drag you back to dance lessons.”

            He smiles and I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. And he gives that chuckle that has me beaming back at him. “I don’t dance,” he says, before pulling me against him and pressing his mouth to mine—just sweet, simple contact.

            He’s so gentle and careful, this slight pressure as he kisses so lightly without asking for anything other than my lips on his. It feels _safe_. Because with Cullen, it’s going to be alright.

            “Excuse me,” a voice says, accompanied by a cough.

            I gasp with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment as Cullen and I break apart. My face most likely resembles a tomato.

            “Lady Vivienne requests that the Inquisitor meet her to resume her dance lessons.” The scout says, staring with very open shock at his Inquisitor and Commander. 

            What is it with the scouts in Skyhold? Damn it.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I can't believe it's been a month since I updated. I'm so sorry I've gotten so slow with updates, but I hope Fee and Cullen kisses make up for it.


	33. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Palace.

            “That _bitch_!” I screech, hand throbbing as the rift explodes in a shower of demon bits. “First she makes me dance with her. Then she tries to kill me! Because she’s working for Corypheus! Of all the conspiracy theories and... and… that _bitch_!”

            I have my own blood all over my face—a split lip and a cut above my eyebrow. Closing the rift started another one of my skull-splitting headaches. It’s been such a _wonderful_ night.

            “Andraste’s tits! What were those? Were those demons?” It’s the mercenary captain gasping as he stands.

            I hold my dagger out, now with only one since I dropped the other in the grass to close the rift.

            “Well they weren’t puppies,” I answer, sniffing and immediately regretting the burning sensation that runs up my nose and into my skull.

            “Maker bless me!” He prattles. “Demons? How could there be demons in the fucking Winter Palace?”

            “I think the Duchess sent them an invitation,” Blackwall says in a low voice, though he’s sheathing his sword.

            “Damn Gaspard.” The mercenary seems to have lost his wits.

            My patience, however, is thin. It could be because I can now feel blood dripping down my chin.

            “Look, Gaspard might be an ass, but the whole demon thing was the Duchess. Though Gaspard was planning on taking the palace tonight, yes?” My face really hurts. This is why I like using a bow. And why I don’t go to balls.

            “Yes, but he didn’t have enough… fancy chevaliers. So he hired me and my men.” The mercenary continues to talk and I hike my skirts up to strap my dagger back to my leg. At least Leliana had hiding weapons in mind when she found the dress for me. “He had to offer us triple our usual pay to come to Orlais. Stinking poncy cheesemongerers.”

            “Poncy cheesemongerers. That’s a good one. I’ll have to tell Varric that,” I mutter to Dorian, who just snorts. To the mercenary, I say, “If you don’t like your job with the cheesemongerers, come work for the Inquisition. Maker knows we could use more blades.”

            “I’m game. Anything’s better than this bullshit.” The mercenary answers. “You want me to talk to the Empress, or the court, or sing a blasted song in the chantry, I’ll do it.”

            “No songs necessary. Meet with me after the Duchess is being led away to some damp, dark, tiny, cell.” I nod to him. “Rat-infested,” I add as an afterthought.

            “Yes, Inquisitor.” The mercenary smacks his fist against his chest before hurrying off, muttering about demons and cheese as he goes.

            “It better be rat-infested.” I breathe, using the back of my hand to wipe the blood off of my chin. I can feel that I’m just smearing it around.

            “Fiona, please stop that. I’m going to be sick.” Dorian says with exasperation, digging out a handkerchief from his nice doublet and passing it to me.

            I grunt what’s supposed to be a ‘thank you’, before trying to get rid of as much blood as possible. “I can’t believe she danced with me and then tried to kill me. She could’ve at least had the courtesy to kill me first.” I gripe, holding at the now bloodied handkerchief to Dorian.

            He stares at it.

            “Oh, right. Um…” I look around, and seeing nowhere to put it, consider shoving it into the side of my dress.

            “Oh, by Andraste’s— Just hand it to me, Fiona.” Cassandra sighs, taking the thing from me and putting it into the pocket of her fancy breeches.

            No one else had to wear a dress but me. The hem is now ripped and tattered from all of the fighting I’ve done, and when a harlequin got a grip on my skirts, he’d nearly slit my throat. It was only thanks to a bolt of lightning from Dorian that kept me alive.

            I find my other dagger in the grass and strap it to my thigh as well. “Alright. Let’s go.”

            We take off briskly, and I’m only glad that Vivienne and Josephine didn’t try to force me into heels of some kind.

            We split up in front of the doors to the ballroom, and I mutter to Cassandra, “Tell the others to be ready to defend Celene.”

            Cassandra nods her agreement. “Are you waiting for Florianne’s first move?”

            “If I don’t want to have Celene try to kill _me_ for attacking her cousin, that might be a good idea,” I whisper back.

            “Point taken.” Cassandra answers.

            I make an attempt to walk elegantly over to Cullen, but I glimpse the Duchess across the ballroom and get a nice kick of satisfaction from seeing her take the tiniest step back.

“Thank the Maker you’re back,” Cullen says quietly as I slide into place next to him. “The Empress will begin her speech soon. What should we do?”

            “I wish I could say I had more of a plan, but I really don’t.” I reply. Cullen looks _really_ good in the Inquisition uniform. Distractingly good. I’ve already had to stop myself from ogling multiple times tonight.

            “Was there more fighting?” Cullen’s eyes track down across my face.

            Probably still a little bloody. Whoops.

            “Yeah. And there might be a bit more—and I have to do it in this stupid dress.” My eyes find Cassandra standing at the back with Dorian and Blackwall. “I don’t know if I have enough evidence to convince Celene that the Duchess is a rampaging lunatic.”

            Cullen frowns. “The Duchess?”

            “The reason I’m sporting a bloody face and a terrible mood. She’s going to make an attempt on Empress Celene’s life.” I rub my temple. “Don't let them anywhere near each other.”

            “Understood.” Cullen puts his hand on my arms and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Be careful, Fee,” he says softly before moving away.

            I take a deep breath and fix my best icy look, trying to imitate Vivienne’s ‘Fee, you are a disgrace to womankind and my toes are now permanently maimed because of you’ expression and give it to Florianne. My eyes narrow as I squint, trying to watch her hand gestures for any signals she may be giving.

            “Let all gathered attend! Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court!” One of the masked announcers gives a flourishing bow as Celene steps forward in the front of the hall.

            She begins speaking, but I move along the edge of the bannisters, trying to get closer to her. They’re applauding now, but I can see Florianne smiling oh-so-demurely as Celene calls her forward.

            _Too close._

            “Stop the Grand Duchess!” I shout, and it’s Inquisition soldiers who try to hold her. I see a flash of metal as I break into a run, but it’s too late. The scout behind her falls as she rounds on the other.

            “She works for Corypheus,” I’m doing the very lady-like thing of hiking up my skirts to grab my daggers. “Empress Celene, you must get to safety!”

            Florianne kills the other Inquisition soldier, shouting, “Now! For Corypheus, kill them all!”

            The harlequins appear, and I see Celene being blocked by her guards as they form a protective wall around her.

            “Cullen, protect the people!” I throw the words over my shoulder as Florianne jumps off of the balcony.

            So, of course, I jump off the balcony as well.

            I roll to break my fall, though my ankles definitely feel it and I stumble on my stupid _fucking_ dress as I stand. I’m never wearing a dress again. Ever.

            “Fiona!”

            “Cassandra, hurry,” I gasp, on my feet but now.

            Something clatters on the tile next to me, accompanied by a louder _thump._ It’s a bow. A bow and a quiver full of arrows. “Cassandra, I really love you.”

            “Profess it some other time,” she huffs back from above. “And bring chocolates and roses.”

            I sling the quiver on without much care and grab the bow, tossing my daggers aside as the others drop to the ground next to me, Dorian with a very pained grunt and Blackwall with a few muttered curses about the Maker and various body parts.

            We run toward the direction Florianne disappeared, only to stutter to a stop when she’s there, aiming an arrow at my face.

            “If you want another dance, my answer is no.” My fingers twitch, itching to grab an arrow.

            “You stole the moment of my triumph, just as you stole the demon from Erimond.” The Duchess keeps her aim fixed on me. “And now you’ve chased a defenseless woman—”

            “Defenseless my ass!” I snap. “How many people have you killed in just tonight alone?”

            Florianne smirks. “You never were one to fall for my helpless-damsel act.”

            “Because you’re a deranged, power-hungry—”

            “Fiona, it might be best not to insult the lovely woman pointing an arrow at your head,” Dorian mutters.

            Florianne actually laughs as she shoots. I side step as the arrow whizzes past my face. Cassandra starts to charge, but Florianne throws a vial and it shatters, exploding into a smoke cloud.

            I cough, squinting through the gray as I rush forward blindly.

            When the cloud dissipates, Florianne is perched on top of the fountain. “The night is still young. All I need to recover… is to kill you, Inquisitor.”

            The gates behind us slam shut. “So good of you to attend my soiree.”

            “Your soiree is shit!” I yell.

            I’m exhausted, nerves fraying, head aching, hand burning, and probably not in the most intelligent mindset. So I’m snarling as I grab an arrow, notch it, and aim at Florianne’s heart.

            The Duchess jumps away gracefully, and harlequins begin swarming the courtyard.

            “Cassandra, behind you!” Dorian calls.

            Blackwall turns to ram his shield into the nearest harlequin that had advanced on Cassandra, while I start firing at the masked terrors. They’re fast, but after not having a bow all night, I’m ready to use it. They don’t get close enough to me or Dorian for us to take a hit.

            Dorian’s summoning a storm, the air crackling as Cassandra decapitates a harlequin.

            _Maker, I never get used to that terrible sound._

Florianne is taking high ground, dancing along the walls. But I don’t want to lose her. I lost Erimond once and it cost too many lives. The Duchess won’t have the same opportunity.

            “Blackwall, keep the clowns off me,” I mutter, aiming slowly as Florianne dances above us, Dorian’s magic attacks keeping her moving.

            “We’re not clowns, my dear. How rude,” one of them simpers.

            Blackwall stabs him without hesitation.

            I’m going to have nightmares about this. I try to steady my breathing, fixing my arrow on Florianne. But she’s aiming too… at Blackwall?

            She releases, and I only have a moment to throw myself at him.

            Pain slashes my arm as I lay half on top of Blackwall, gritting my teeth together. “Damn it.”

            Blackwall’s already heaving both of us to our feet, and I shake my head to try to clear it.

            “My la-” The Warden breaks off as a harlequin charges at us.

            I scrabble, reaching for my bow, notching an arrow. My left arm is bleeding from where Florianne’s arrow sliced past me. It could’ve been much worse. It could’ve been through Blackwall’s heart.

            _Focus!_ I try to steady my breathing as I scan the gardens for the Duchess. For a terrible moment, I think she’s escaped. But I see her again, this time on the run from Cassandra.

            I draw back, waiting for a clear shot. Dorian electrocutes a harlequin charging at us as Florianne hops on top of the hedge, shouting about how Corypheus will rule over us all.

            _Release._

It catches the Duchess in the throat, and she falls from the hedges, body hitting the grass with a dull _thud._

Blackwall cuts down the last harlequin I can see.

            “Clear!” Cassandra’s voice sounds far away, murky.

            “Good.” I try to shake my arm out, but I now have blood trickling down to my wrist from where the arrow tore through in my bicep. Well, trickling is an understatement. There are sounds of other people now, a blur of women screaming and men shouting at each other. “And now the cheesemongerers have arrived,” I breathe.

            Cassandra takes out the bloody handkerchief from earlier and wraps it around my arm. “I assume that means fighting in the ballroom is over as well.”

            “Let’s hope so. I think I need to have a word with the Empress,” I say as Cassandra ties off the makeshift bandage.

            “Just one? I have quite a few,” Dorian sags against his staff. “Particularly about the way the ham tastes. Despair is not very appealing.”

            I snort, flinching as it makes my head pound harder. “I’ll mention that to her if it comes up.”

            I’m now aware that we have an audience of the nobles and soldiers, hands pressed over their mouths. It’s like they’re expecting another fight. I sigh grimly as I start up the stairs again.

            Two of the Orlesian servants rush to open the gates for us, and Empress Celene appears at the top of the stairs in front of the fancy, massive doors.

            “Empress Celene, I believe we have much to discuss.” I say, probably a little too tersely to be considered polite. But I’m so damn _done_ with the Game.

            “Of course, Inquisitor.” Celene says delicately, sweeping her arm to the side for me to follow.

            Cassandra nods to me, waiting with Dorian and Blackwall along with half of the nobility in Orlais, as they watch Empress Celene and I retreat around the corner, to the side balcony. Briala and Gaspard are already there, bickering. Well, accusing each other of treason. Same difference in Orlais, it seems.

            They stop when Celene and I approach them, and Gaspard’s eyes move to my arm. “You’re injured, Inquisitor?”

            “Your sister tried to kill me just a few moments ago.” I deadpan.

            Gaspard has the decency to look slightly apologetic. “Ah. Yes.”

            “She attempted regicide in front of the entire court, Gaspard,” Briala says coolly.

            Gaspard whips his head so quickly from me to her I think his neck might snap. “You’re the Spymaster. If anyone knew this atrocity was coming, it was you.”

            Briala’s eyes sparkle underneath her mask in an off-putting way. “You don’t deny your involvement.”

            For some reason, my vision is getting blurry as well. I blink quickly as Gaspard retorts, “I do deny it! I knew nothing of Florianne’s plans. But you… you knew it all and did nothing!”

            Briana scoffs in return. “I don’t know which is better—that you think I’m all-seeing or that you’re still trying so hard to play innocent and failing.”           

            “Enough!” Celene glares at them both. “We will not bicker while Tevinter plots against our nation! For the safety of the Empire, I will have answers.”

            The pain in my arm is spreading, burning through my chest now. I have to clench my teeth together as I answer, “It’s not ‘Tevinter’ that you’re up against any more. Corypheus isn’t tied to any nation—he wants to destroy the world.”

            “What happened tonight was not purely Florianne’s doing,” Celene replies.

            “No, it would’ve been much easier for everyone if that were the case.” I feel all the frustration bubbling to the surface as they all look at me indignantly. “I _know_ all of you are responsible for the disruptions and deceit tonight.”

            “That’s a bold claim, Inquisitor. Are you prepared to defend it?” Celene raises her nose in the air.

            “Yes, I am! You three were so wrapped up in espionage, coups, and manipulation that you couldn’t see one of the members of your own court was working for Corypheus!” My hands curl into fists as the pain prickles at my lungs. “Empress Celene, you lured Gaspard here knowing he had plans for some kind of overthrow, and counted on him screwing up and creating his own political downfall. Briala played both sides, killing negotiators and forging documents. And to what end? To fight over a crown?”

            Celene stares at me with an unreadable expression, while Briala snaps, “So what if I did? Take me down, and elves will riot in every city in the Empire?”

            That’s the final blow. “This is the selfish attitude that put Orlais in this position in the first place,” I hiss, gritting my teeth against the burning sensation that’s now moved up to my throat as well. “Would you like me to threaten you with the knowledge I have of your relationship with the Empress during the purge of Halamshiral’s alienage? Because I don’t give a damn for those kind of politics, but it seems like that’s all you care about.”

            “You have been quite busy collecting information tonight, Inquisitor,” Briala folds her arms across her chest.

            “As a matter of fact, I have been. I was running around the Winter Palace chasing leads and getting attacked all for a game of ‘who gets to sit on the throne’?” My temper has completely snapped as my head continues to pound. “Guess what? I don’t care for the Game and I’m done playing along. My priority lies with the people that I promised to protect. The people who are dying because of the rifts that appear across your nation. Rifts that the Inquisition has been working to close while Orlesian leadership—you three—fight amongst yourselves, plotting, devising traps, manipulating. What good does that do your people when Corypheus wants to destroy the world? The Inquisition gave their lives to fight at Adamant Fortress, striking a blow against Corypheus. And I come to Orlais to find that you’ve been preoccupied by squabbling with each other. Good people _died._ And more are going to. I thought you would want to keep them safe as much as I do, but it appears I expected too much from the people who are supposed to be rulers.” I’m shaking—whether that’s from the anger or from the pain, I’m not entirely sure.

            “You’ve made your point, Inquisitor,” Celene says flatly.

            “Good.” I can feel my head start to spin. “Because I’m trying to protect the people—my people—and I think it’s time you start doing the same. All of you. Together.”

            There’s a beat of silence and I hope my breathing doesn’t sound as ragged as it feels.

            “It is remarkably… optimistic to believe that the three of us could ever forget our differences, Inquisitor. But I see your point, and understand your frustrations.”

            Gaspard looks at me, and he seems almost amused. “I’ve been thoroughly chastised, Inquisitor. I don’t think I’ve received a tongue-lashing like that since I was a boy receiving it from my nanny.”

            I barely manage a smirk. “Inquisitor first, nanny-in-training second.”

            Empress Celene smoothens her skirts, obviously not amused. “I believe the nobility requires an answer for what happened.”

            My knees go weak, and I lean on the balcony rail. “A unified speech from the now unified leaders of Orlais?” I say stupidly, now barely holding myself up and praying they don’t notice.

            Fortunately, that makes them start arguing again and they leave, headed into the ballroom.

            Just as they disappear from view, my arms give out and I end up sprawled on the balcony.

            _What the hell is this?_

My lungs… they aren’t…

            I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, and now I can’t move. It hurts everywhere and I…

            _Poisoned arrow. Florianne’s poisoned arrow._

No, no, no. I try to push myself up to my knees, but I can’t move anymore. Not at all.

            _If I die, what happens to the anchor?_ Panic. Panic takes over and I’m suffocating and—

            Someone’s saying my name, but it sounds far away. The world tilts, and my own cloudy vision can barely discern golden cat eyes above me before I fall into nothing.


	34. Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Palace.

            There’s moments of clarity, then nothing. Then floating, then dreaming.

            Bloodied, limping Inquisition soldiers screaming for help. Fenris plunging his hand into my chest, screaming about Hawke. Matt crawling toward me, body twisted, begging me to save him.

            Then everything _hurts._ I’m on fire and people are shouting at each other, arguing, and I’m burning and burning and can’t scream and can’t move and I’m _hurting._

            Dream. Bodies piling up around me. Varric. Dorian. Cassandra. Blackwall. Cullen. _No, no, Cullen. Please don’t be dead. Don’t be—don’t be gone. Please. No, no. My fault. I failed. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

But then my eyes fly open and Cullen’s there—alive, not pale with death. He says something, but the sound blurs into the roaring in my ears.

            “Fee. I’m right here. I’m right here. Can you hear me?”

            I want to scream. Fire is underneath my skin and boiling me from inside out.

            The colors are smearing together. Other faces, features I can’t make out. Hand on my forehead.

            “Her fever’s still too high.”

            “I have saved her heart and her lungs the best I could, Commander. But I can’t remove the poison from her body entirely.”

            “The best you could?”

            “Cullen, please. Lady Morrigan has saved Fiona’s life.”

            “I—yes. Forgive me.”

            Nothing.

            Demon, laughing. Mocking. _“You will never show them the pathetic, scared, worthless woman underneath all of those titles.”_

_Make it stop. Make it stop._

            _“How tragic that the Inquisitor they place all their hope in is just a sad little girl named Fee.”_

            Crawling out of the darkness. Heavy. Everything’s heavy. Empty.

            _Breathing. Can’t breathe. Weight crushing._

            “Fiona?”

            I force my eyes open to a bright room. I squint, something blurry above me.

            “Mm,” I can’t even manage anything but a groan, words trapped somewhere inside my throat though I’m not even sure what I could say.

            “Thank the Maker. Leliana, could you please—”

            “I’ll notify her right away.”

            It’s Cassandra’s face that comes into focus, towering over me with her lips pinched together. “Do not try to move quickly. You’ve been… you were…”

            “Shot,” I manage to croak. “By that damn Duchess.” The words are slurred and my breath rattles like I’m on my deathbed.

            _Am I on my deathbed?_

I try to swallow, the process entirely too slow as my throat refuses to cooperate.

            “You were poisoned.” Cassandra says.

            “Figured that out,” I rasp, attempting to smile and failing miserably. “Where…?”

            “We’re in the Winter Palace,” Cassandra starts pacing around the room—the ornately decorated fancy room. Since I’m lying flat on my back in bed, I can see the painted ceiling. The lavish golden curtains are drawn, but I can see that there’s no light coming in from outside. There are several lamps around the room that cast enough light for everything to be clear.

            “Celene? Gaspard and Briala?”

            “All safe. Leliana has spies set on them already, and they’ve reported that despite arguments they’re cooperating.” Cassandra supplies the answer before she stops and whirls around to look at me, and I can see concern flash in her eyes. “Are you in pain?”

            I try to shake my head but realize I can’t move my neck. “Can’t feel a thing.” _Literally._

Cassandra hesitates, frowning at me with the same worried expression. “Leliana went to notify Lady Morrigan that you woke.”

            _Lady Morrigan?_ “Scary pretty one, right?”

            Cassandra blinks. “Ah. Yes. Empress Celene’s advisor. We found you collapsed on the balcony and she was able to keep you alive. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

            The information sinks in as my eyebrows pull together. “Three days? What happened with the fight the night of the ball? In the ballroom, were there—” I have to break off to breathe, struggling to force air into my lungs. “Were there casualties?”

            “Five Inquisition soldiers dead, eleven wounded.” Cassandra answers immediately, stepping closer to the bed.

            I wince. “Who?”

            “Cullen has the names,” Cassandra’s face softens. “But for the moment, you should be focused on your own recovery. For a while we thought… we feared the worst.”

            There’s not even a knock before the door swings open and then shut again, Morrigan walking brusquely into the room as she comes into my line of vision. “Inquisitor,” she says as means of a greeting, wearing a simple black dress that still somehow makes her look both terrifying and beautiful.

            “Lady Morrigan,” I answer lamely. I suppose if I’m dying or near dead, I don’t need to come up with anything particularly eloquent or creative.

            She moves next to Cassandra and eyes me critically. “Thank you for, um, not letting me experience death by poison,” I supply.

            Morrigan arches a dark eyebrow. “You are welcome. It would be bad, to say the least, for the woman with the anchor to die. But you certainly did not make it easy to keep you alive.” She says it practically, and I’m not sure how she knows that the mark is called the anchor. “Tell me, can you move your fingers?”

            I try to take a deep breath, though my chest hardly cooperates.

            Nothing.

            There’s just dead weight all around me. “No.” I say quietly. It’s disconcerting to have both of them towering over me now.

            “And your feet?” Morrigan asks again, her eyes narrowing.

            I grit my teeth together, trying to feel _anything._ “Not those either.”

            “I see.” Morrigan frowns, reaching forward with glowing hands, pressing one to my forehead. “Your fever is almost gone.”

            “Isn’t that a good sign?” Cassandra asks, as we both must have noted that Morrigan sounded concerned.

            “It means that her body is stopping its fight against the poison—that it has almost left her system.” Morrigan glances at Cassandra before returning her attention to me. “I tried to purge it from your body before it could continue to damage you, but I was not entirely successful. The poison Duchess Florianne used appears to be potent indeed.”

            “Sure as hell feels potent.” I mutter, trying to push down the panic I can feel clawing at the back of my mind. _Why can’t I move?_

            Morrigan smiles thinly. “I believe that. Unfortunately, I am unsure of what this will mean for you. The poison seems to have been distilled from fermented grain—I’ve seen it before. There is still fluid in your lungs, your heart is pumping too slowly, and you breath is labored.”

            “Check, check, and check,” I feel like it’s getting even harder to breathe as Morrigan continues. “And… paralysis?” I ask, forcing my voice to be as steady and firm as possible.

            Morrigan hesitates. “I suspected that would occur as well. It is lucky that you woke at all, but… I do not know if feeling will return. You may be able to move your limbs gradually in the coming weeks without resumed use of your fingers, or perhaps you will not be able to move at all.” Her voice softens, but the blow of her words makes the panic bubble up my throat as I choke, feeling like I’m falling again.

            Not be able to move at all?

            “What?” I’m lying on my back, barely able to use the muscles in my neck and I… I might be… I lick my cracked lips, my head swimming.

            “Nothing is certain yet,” Morrigan answers. “As for now, we will have to see how your recovery will progress.”

            I can’t breathe again. “It was just a cut,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just an arrow graze. The poison couldn’t be this bad.”

            My eyes catch Cassandra putting her hand on what I’m guessing is my shoulder. I can’t feel it, so I don’t fucking know. “Fiona, we don’t know how you will progress yet. We already wrote for Solas, and we will keep looking for ways to reverse the poison’s effects. Leliana sent out her people the moment Lady Morrigan identified the poison.”

            I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t believe it. This isn’t happening. This is still a dream. This is another nightmare. It has to be.

            “I will return with a salve that might be of help.” Morrigan says.

            I can feel (a very rare thing now) my lip trembling and bite it before saying again, “Thank you.”

            There’s a rustle of skirts again, a door creaking, and I find myself staring at the ceiling. It’s a lion, I notice dully. I’ll be staring at it quite often since I’m useless and stuck in a bed.

            “Fiona?”

            I blink and tear are suddenly rolling down my face and I can’t even lift my hand wipe my cheeks. I can’t move. I might not be able to move again. Ever.

            “Fiona, we are not giving up.” Cassandra’s voice is strained and I want to sink into the Orlesian fancy mattress and disappear.

            “I’m sorry, Cassandra,” I murmur, jaw jumping as I try to tamp down on my leaking eyes.

            “Why are you sorry?”

            I clench my teeth. “I’m hardly supposed to be like this.”

            The sheets rustle and I realize Cassandra’s sitting down next to me. “You’ve been poisoned—as much as I enjoy glaring at you, you were not responsible for this.”

            I open my eyes slowly, and I hate that my face is wet and that my voice breaks when I say, “ _I’m not supposed to be like this._ Cass, I’m crying and I can’t move and I’m—I’m—I’m scared.” The admission makes my mouth twist again, stupid eyes releasing more tears. “I’m sorry.”

            “Stop apologizing,” Cassandra barks, and I flinch. But then her hands are on my face, moving roughly as they wipe my cheeks in what must be Cassandra Pentaghast’s show of care.

            “I know I’m not supposed to be stuck in a bed.” My words string together, maybe incoherently. “Or scared of being stuck like this forever. I’m the Inquisitor, damn it. If I can’t… Maker, Cassandra, if I can’t move again what are we going to do? The anchor’s on my hand, but if I can’t—”

            There’s a knock on the door, and an unfamiliar voice calls, “Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court, Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva, and Ser Cullen Rutherford wish to see the Inquisitor.”

            _No. No, no, no. They can’t see me like this. They can’t. Cullen can’t._

“Don’t let them in,” I look up at Cassandra with eyes filling all over again.

            “Hold there,” Cassandra calls as she stands, glancing at the door to me. “They have been worried constantly. Cullen was only forced to leave your side when Leliana threatened him. He hadn’t eaten.”

            “They shouldn’t see me. Not like this.” My throat is painfully tight.

            Recognition flashes across Cassandra’s face. “You’re afraid of disappointing them.”

            “Yes,” I whisper.

            “I will be back.” Cassandra says slowly before striding across the room to the door, slipping out of it.

            I break down again, trying not to let the strangled noises escape my lips.

            There’s arguing, Cullen’s raised voice. Josephine’s mediating, Leliana’s clipped instead of lilting.

            Cassandra returns, but doesn’t say anything as she stiffly moves to sit beside me again. “Cullen is furious with me now.”

            I take a shuddering breath. “Thank you. For keeping him out.”

            Cassandra is silent for another moment. “You must have been like this after Adamant. But I was one of those you kept outside of the door.”

            The days following Adamant—the brave face, the terrible nightmares, pushing everyone away so they couldn’t see the way my hands shook.

            When I don’t say anything, Cassandra murmurs, “I understand. If others come by—Dorian will, as soon as he hears you’ve woken. Blackwall as well. Do you wish for them to see you?”

            “No. Please don’t let them in.” I whisper.

            “I... yes.” And she doesn’t speak again until I’ve drifted off into sleep, into nothing again.

            Unintelligible sounds and colors. Hawke’s shouting for help, the demon swallowing her whole. Dorian laughs as blood blossoms from the arrow sticking out of his chest. Sera calls my name, taunting as she burns on a funeral pyre. My brothers appear, death in their eyes as they approach, asking why I let Thedas burn. Cullen looks at me with disgust. _“How tragic that the Inquisitor they place all their hope in is just a sad little girl named Fee,”_ Cullen’s mouth moves, the Adamant fade demon’s voice matching his. _“Pathetic failure. You’re weak. You lied. I thought you were strong. I thought you would save us. I can’t even stand to look at you.”_

            Skyhold’s filled with corpses, the sky is green, and I scream.

            And then, thankfully, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this was re-written about nine times even though I totally thought I had it ready to go after the first draft (and the next two or three). Sorry for the sad lack of cute and sweet, but Fee's problems unfortunately refused to vanish just because of Cullen kisses.  
> 


	35. Admitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Palace.

            “I’ve never heard of a spirit playing matchmaker before. Maker knows I could’ve used some help when I was a teenager.” I snort.

            Solas laughs softly, removing his hand from the cut on my arm that’s turned black, veins standing out and making my stomach turn every time I glance at it. Solas arrived only a few days ago, and I’ve been stuck uselessly in this bed for almost two weeks. “The girls in this village were fortunate to have such help.”

            “I’ll say,” I sigh dramatically. I’ve made progress- I can now heave melodramatic breaths because I can actually fill up my lungs. And I can also move the right side of my body. But where the arrow hit on my left arm—where the poison spread—I can’t move. But at least I’m only half paralyzed now. That counts for something. I realize I’m moping and shake my head. “Solas, how do spirits decide who to help? Is it because they find people that are in the same area, like how you had to travel to see different parts of the fade?”

            “Location is a part of it, yes,” Solas answers, leaning back in the chair pulled up by my bed. His eyes are bright, almost as shiny as the top of his very bald head. “I’ll tell you more about it if you’ll do some of your exercises.”

            I scowl at Solas. “You sound just like my mother. And that’s not a compliment.” I raise my moveable arm slowly from the blanket. It feels like there’s a horse sitting on top of it.

            “Is it any easier today?”

            “Um. Yes. I think so,” I say, though honestly my arm is already shaking.

            Solas watches me closely. “I do believe you’re gaining strength back, even from what I saw of you when I first arrived. Lady Morrigan has been an excellent healer.”

            I make a noncommittal noise, screwing my face in concentration as I make it to ten lifts. I let my arm fall back to the bed. “Morrigan’s the only reason I’m not dead right now,” I answer, trying not to pant. “And I probably wouldn’t be able to move this much if it weren’t for you. Thank you again, Solas, for coming all the way to the Winter Palace to help.”

            “You are welcome,” Solas tells me sincerely, all sense of motherly patronization gone. “I was glad to be of service.”

            “You’re glad to be bossing me around again, too, I’m sure.” I grin at him.

            “Keeping you in decent health seems to be much harder work than I would’ve expected,” Solas answers with what _almost_ looks like a smirk.

            “You know, if it hadn’t been for that one damn arrow-”

            “I said you can’t enter! Inquisitor’s orders!” The muffled voice of the guard outside my door makes me break off.

            “The Inquisitor is being an absolute dolt and you can either run me through with that barbaric little toothpick you call a sword, or—” The door swings open revealing Dorian and a red-faced guard holding a blade out.

            “What the—Dorian what are you doing?” I struggle to sit up, trying to use my good arm.

            The guard looks from me to a very angry Dorian. The altus is practically bristling. “What should I do, your worship?”

            “You don’t need to stab him. Thanks, though.” I mumble, watching Dorian and shrinking back into the pillows.

            “I believe that this is my cue to leave,” Solas raises his eyebrows. He pads out of the room gracefully, the guard retreating back into the hallway with a final glare at Dorian.

            I stare at the mage for a few moments. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the night of the ball.

            Dorian crosses his arms. “Well? You don’t have anything to say?”

            “I’m glad you didn’t get skewered by a barbaric toothpick?”

            The anger seems to deflate Dorian as he walks over wordlessly to my bed, and I wince at my helpless state. “You’ve lost too much weight again,” Dorian says finally.

            “Winter Palace diet. Everything tastes like despair,” I joke, hoping he doesn’t notice the completely motionless left side of my body.

            Dorian sits slowly next to me on the bed. “I intended to come in here and scold you, but you look… Well, you look absolutely terrible, Fiona.”

            “Thanks.” At least he’s being honest.

            He pats my unfeeling arm. “But we still need to talk. I have a few choice words stored up after the last two weeks of being barred from seeing you.”

            “I thought you would’ve gone back to Skyhold with the others.” I look down at the blanket and study it intently.

            “After you ordered everyone to leave you?” Dorian’s voice sharpens.

            “I didn’t order anything,” I feel my eyebrows pull together. “I just suggested that it would be better for the Inquisition if everyone returned to Skyhold and continued on without me.”

            “You had all of us kept out of your room,” Dorian snaps. “Cassandra told us you weren’t fit to have company. As if we were some Orlesian nobles for you to entertain and not your friends.”

            I blink as the words come as a slap across the face. “It’s not that… I didn’t mean… You wouldn’t have wanted to see me like that.” _Or like this._

“ _Venhedis!_ I would have wanted to see you even if you’d been entirely purple and foaming at the mouth. Don’t confuse what you were afraid of with what we wanted.” Dorian’s eyes are blazing. “We spent two days not sure if you would live. Cullen refused to leave your side—I’ve never seen someone hold another’s hand so tightly before.”

            The easy breathing I’ve gotten used to vanishes, and I feel again like there’s a weight crushing my chest. “I didn’t think—”

            “Of course you didn’t. I would’ve told you about your dear Commander if you hadn’t refused to see us and then sent us all away. It took a shouting match with Leliana before he left the Winter Palace for Skyhold—under your ‘suggestion’.” Dorian continues to tear into me.

            “And what if he’d seen me?” I shout, anger prickling behind my eyes. “Do _you_ know what it would’ve been like? I couldn’t move. I was completely paralyzed and terrified. I would’ve cried and been nothing but a pathetic mess.”

            “He wouldn’t have cared!” Dorian yells back, and I’ve never heard his voice this loud before. But as soon as it raises, it softens again. “I wouldn’t have cared. I _don’t_ care. If you want to cry until you’re nothing but a puddle of Inquisitor, please do so!” A muscle jumps in Dorian’s jaw before his shoulders relax and he says more quietly, “It seems that I’ve scolded you despite your ghastly appearance. But really, please just cry instead of staring at me with that stony expression.”

            I burst into tears and Dorian pulls me into his arms so I can put my wet and probably snotty face into his shoulder.

            “Probably shouldn’t have said you were ghastly.” Dorian mutters, and it takes a lot of effort, but I raise my right arm to wrap it around him.

            “I’m sorry, Dorian,” I say miserably, voice muffled by his shirt.

            Dorian pats my back slowly—I can feel part of it. “You’re incredibly stupid sometimes, you know.”

            “Is this your way of saying you were worried?”

            Dorian huffs as he gently helps me back to the propped-up pillows. He must now that I can’t move well on my own. “Of course I was worried. We all were.”

            I sniff again before saying slowly, “I didn’t want to worry you. It seems like the whole plan backfired on me just a bit.”

            “Yes, it seems so,” Dorian rolls his eyes. “You’re absolutely terrible at letting people close to you when you need them most. I, however, am not so easily deterred. Maybe because I heard what the demon said to you in the fade.”

            My stomach turns as my mouth goes dry. “I…”

            “Do you really think it’s true? That we wouldn’t care for you any longer if you stopped putting on a brave face all the time?” Dorian frowns.

            “I don’t want to find out.” I say in a small voice.

            “I’m still here,” Dorian points out. “You’ve got snot and tears all over my shirt, you look like death itself ate you and spat you back out again, and yet somehow, I find that I like you just as much as before.”

            “Maybe you’re crazy,” I supply.

            Dorian grimaces. “I don’t understand what it is that’s made you so closed off.”

            I watch him for a moment before saying, “I was engaged.”

            “What? Really?”

            I nod. “When I was seventeen. I was supposed to become a chantry sister, but he was this boy from a lesser house who I’d met years before and fallen for just as quickly.” I give a short laugh at myself, avoiding looking at Dorian. “I guess that’s what happens when you think you fall in love the first time. It was all very dramatic. He never expressed an interest and I simply followed him around like a pathetic puppy whenever we were together for some social event. And one day he suddenly asked if he could court me. It was incredibly formal and stupid, and I should’ve seen the warning signs.”

            “He was using you?” Dorian asks, his eyes narrowing.

            “For my title. My family’s money. I found out after he’d proposed marriage, about three weeks before the wedding was scheduled. I overheard a conversation between he and his father one night when I went to see Neil unannounced. Apparently Neil had ended things with another girl because his father wanted him to pursue me instead.” His name slips. It’s strange how easily the words are coming. After all, I know the story by heart.

            “Bastard.” Dorian mutters.

            I shrug with my moveable shoulder. “I didn’t even call him that. Well, not to his face and not until I’d gotten over the moping and crying part of it all. He tried to tell me that he’d fallen in love with me, but I didn’t believe him. And didn’t care. I convinced myself that he didn’t even know who I was, and was simply in love with my title as a Trevelyan.”

            Dorian shifts on the bed. “You can’t think that Cullen is anything like that.”

            “No, no,” I say quickly. “Cullen would probably prefer that I wasn’t a noble, actually. We both hate all the… fancy nobly stuff anyway.”

            “So if that wasn’t it, what was?” Dorian questions.

            I grimace at him. “You’re awfully nosy.”

            “And you have snot on my shirt.”

            “Point taken.”

            Dorian snorts. “Go on.”

            I struggle to find more words and end up just pursing my lips. “Maker’s balls, I don’t even know how to describe it. One of my earliest memories is arguing with a playmate over what game to play—she wanted to dress up dolls and I wanted to pretend we were hunters in the woods. She grew frustrated and informed me that she hated me anyway and was only being nice and offering to share her dolls because her mother told her she had to be nice to the Trevelyan girl.”

            “What a charming child,” Dorian sighs. “Yet our childhoods sound remarkably similar.”

            I give Dorian a bleak smile. “It wasn’t exactly oodles of fun, was it? It’s just—that’s what I grew up with. I never knew if someone liked me for who I was or if they wanted to use me for my title. People who I thought were my friends were sometimes using me to get at my brothers, or to try to learn family secrets. So I avoided court as much as I could, but when I was there I… didn’t let anyone close enough to really know me. Everyone wore masks at court—liars, backstabbers, people who use pretty words to find your weakness and exploit it. So I learned to protect myself. My father always told me that expressing worry to someone else made me vulnerable. So I kept everything to myself. I could ramble away with surface-deep talk, but anything more than that… I get all… Damn it. I lose words and get all... I don’t know. Like this. And I’m not sure that anyone’s ever actually cared about me for just who I am, and maybe that’s because I stopped letting them see.”

            Dorian remains silent, the quiet prompting me on more than anything he could say.

            I take a deep breath. “I hate it when people see me as nothing more than a title, but I’m scared to be seen as just myself. Because maybe I’m not enough without being called a Trevelyan, or the Herald, or the Inquisitor.” I force myself to meet Dorian’s eyes. “Can you honestly say your opinions of me haven’t changed because of everything I told you?”

            Dorian twists the edge of his moustache. “I can now say I understand why you act like a complete imbecile at times.”

            I blink at him.

            Dorian drops his hand. “You haven’t grown any extra limbs in the last few minutes. Or admitted that you’re secretly a Venatori spy.”

            “It’s alright if you—”

            “Fiona.” Dorian shakes his head. “I am not that dastardly Neil, nor am I someone with an interest in you so shallow that I would be put off by vulnerability. You’re my friend—perhaps my only friend. And honesty about your past or about your feelings won’t change that.”

            For a moment I can only try to understand what Dorian said. I manage to croak, “How are you always looking out for me?”

            “I told you I keep an eye out,” Dorian smiles, his eyes crinkling. “And that I wouldn’t leave you all alone.”

            I feel tears build up behind my eyes. “If you don’t stop being so nice, I’m going to get snot all over your shirt again.”

            Laughing, Dorian asks, “Are you encouraging me to make more snide remarks?”

            I wipe at my cheeks with my good hand, straining to have it up. “Maker, no. You don’t need any encouragement in that field.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dorian quips, before his expression turns serious. “There _is_ something you need to know, though, now that we’ve had our heartfelt little chat.”

            “What happened?” My heart stutters. The morbid possibilities are endless.

            “Blackwall. Or… Well, he’s disappeared.”

            “What?”

            “Leliana and I thought he returned to Skyhold with the others, but they reached camp and sent word two days ago and Blackwall wasn’t with them.”

            “Shit. Are there any leads? Was he kidnapped?”

            _I can’t believe I’m sitting here in bed and something’s happened to Blackwall._

            “We have information,” Dorian says grimly. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”


	36. Mirrored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Val Royeaux.

            I grit my teeth together as I half-hop, half-drag myself through the streets of Val Royeaux.

            Blackwall. Thom Rainier. Traitor. Murderer.

            My left leg almost gives out and I have to stop to lean against the gilded fence. Solas emphasized that I shouldn’t try to walk on my left leg yet, but since my left arm hangs uselessly at my side, using a crutch was hardly feasible on that side. So I hobble with a crutch under my right arm, trying to substitute it as a more usable third leg.

            This might not be the most intelligent way of getting around, but Dorian’s thankfully kept his mouth shut about how stupid I must look.

            “Do you want to sit down?” The altus asks now, eyeing me critically.

            I shake my head. “I can make it.”

_I need to make it._

Blackwall—Rainier—was dragged off to prison after stopping the execution, and while I want to punch him in his bearded face, I also want answers.

            I use my elbow to push myself off of the wall, adjust my grip on the plain wooden crutch, and start off hobbling again.

            Dorian wordlessly keeps pace with me, his expression grim.

            When we reach the prison, I shake off the hood of my cloak and enter. The Orlesian guards stop us.

            “And what business do you have here?” One of the guards asks, his mask covering his mouth and muffling his voice.

            “Thom Rainier,” I answer, my voice much smaller than I anticipated.

            “And who—”

            “It’s the Inquisitor, you idiot.” The other guard hisses. “Your worship, please, Rainier was just put into one of the private cells. We can take you to him without delay.”

            “Thank you,” I manage to say. Even the entrance to the prison looks daunting. The air feels colder and my heart beats even faster. “Dorian, are you—”

            “This is all yours, Fiona.” Dorian nods to me, his eyes dark. “You deserve answers.”

            I swallow loudly. “Right. Answers.” I do my best to lift my chin as I follow the guards deeper into the prison, out of the main room with tables and lined with cells. The air continues to chill, and the hair on the back of my neck raises.

            All the questions I have for Blackwall—Rainier—disappear as I struggle to keep up with the prison guards. I don’t know if I can do this.

            “He’s in the only occupied cell, your worship.”

            The guards are leaving me alone with him.

            Shit.

            “Thank you.” I put on my best calm voice and wait until the guards leave to catch my breath.

            _He lied to me. He’s lied to me the entire time. He’s killed defenseless people and I kissed him and became his **friend.** I don’t even know him at all. I threw myself in front of an arrow for him, almost died, and for what?_

I feel like I want to throw up, but I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. When I open my eyes again, I roll back my good shoulder and limp forward. With only a few more steps, I see him, sitting in a cell to my left.

            The dim light gleams off of his hair, and his head is bowed into his hands, almost like he’s praying.

            I can’t make myself move any closer, so I stop and watch him. Everything about him is familiar.

            “I didn’t take Blackwall’s life.”

            The words take me by surprise. He’s still not even looking at me.

            “I traded his death. He wanted me for the Wardens. And there was an ambush. Darkspawn. He was killed.” Short sentences. He still doesn’t raise his face. “I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man, the man _he_ was, wouldn’t have let another die in his place.”

            I’m not sure anything he said is doing more than bouncing off of me, and I struggle to take it all in. “Who _are_ you?” I whisper. “You really… you really killed all of those people? And let your men hang?”

            _Tell me it’s not true. Tell me it’s not true._

“Yes, I did.” Blackwall answers, voice deep and dead. “It’s all true. It’s time we all took a good look at who I really am.”

            “And who is that?” I ask numbly. I put as much of my weight as I can on my crutch, my left leg shaking just from the effort of standing. “Please tell me who you are, because now I’m not sure I ever knew you at all.”

            “You weren’t supposed to find me.” Blackwall’s shoulders hunch as he continues to stare at the floor, and the apathy in his voice makes me want to shake him. “You were just supposed to think I was gone. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

            I suck in a sharp breath at that. My own words to Dorian—my own reasoning for pushing my friends away. “You… you wanted me to remember you as Blackwall, and never know you were Thom Rainier. You would’ve lied to me until the end.”

            “Don’t you understand?” Blackwall finally looks at me as he stands. “I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his entourage, and I lied to my men about what they were doing!” He grabs onto the bars that separate us, slamming them, rattling them. “When it came to light, _I ran_. Those men, my men, paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man.” The anger and disgust in his voice echoes through the prison.

            I try to take a step back only for my leg to collapse and I crumple, crutch clattering uselessly to the stone next to me.

            Blackwall watches me, his face still contorted. “ _This_ is what I am. A murderer. A traitor.” He sinks to the floor. “A monster.”

            My breath is ragged, too loud. I don’t even try to stand. I’m not sure I can. “I trusted you.”

            Blackwall and I stare at each other from our positions on the cold floor. “You almost died for me.” Blackwall growls. “For someone unworthy, no better than a beast.”

            “I was trying to protect my friend,” I say, dropping my chin to my chest. “I was trying to protect _you_.”

            “You’re the Inquisitor. And I’m—”

            “Blackwall. Rainier. Take your pick.” I raise my eyes slowly. “You murdered children. You lied and let your men die for it. Trust me, I’m very aware of it all now.”

            “Wouldn’t you be happier thinking I was a noble man, a Grey Warden, instead of this?” Blackwall holds my gaze, letting me see him for all he is. “I would’ve saved you the pain of learning that everything you knew about me was a lie.”

            “Was it? Is it? Are you a lie, Blackwall? I would’ve been happier knowing who you were was real.” I use his name—the wrong name—without thinking. He’s still Blackwall to me. I laugh shortly, more of a strangled exhale than anything else. “You know, maybe we are far too alike. And look at us now. The man who pretended to be a Warden on one side of the prison cell. The woman who tried to be Inquisitor collapsed on the other. I think we never knew each other at all.”

            I grind my teeth together as I reach for my crutch, trying to pick myself up from the floor. But I stop, hand still outstretched. My fingers curl into a fist as I grasp at the bars of the cell behind me instead and make it to one knee.

            Blackwall watches expressionlessly and I refuse to let myself fall. My arm is trembling as I stand.

            “Goodbye, Blackwall.” I’m gritting my teeth together, limping forward. I don’t look back.

            The stairs are hell.

            Every step hurts and I shake with anger—maybe with something else.

            _I don’t want to be like Blackwall. I don’t want to be like him._

And with every step up, _one foot in front of the other._

_I can do this. I can do this._

I reach the top of the stairs with my chest heaving, left leg close to giving out again. _One foot in front of the other._

Leaning against the wall, I make it back to the entrance room, only to freeze when I catch a flash of a familiar red coat in the corner of my eye.

            _Cullen._

            I shudder, turning to face him.

            He’s holding papers in his hand—a report, with an Inquisition seal. His face is pale, but his eyes are fixed on me like he’s seeing a ghost.

            Everything inside of me screams to walk away from him, not to let him see the tears building behind my eyes, not to let him realize how badly I’m shaking.

            _Hold it together. Put on a smile. Run. Lie._

            Instead, I take an unsteady step toward him.

            That’s all it takes.

            Cullen strides forward and I throw my arm around his neck, burying my face in his coat as he pulls me into his chest, holding me to him, holding me together, holding me.

            When I lean back enough to look at him, the warmth in his eyes in makes me smile—it’s small and broken, but it’s real.

            “Dorian told me of your recovery outside. How are you holding up?” Cullen asks gently, his arms still supporting me.

            I remove my hold around the back of Cullen’s neck to rest my hand on his chest. It somehow seems to stop right over his heart, like it belongs there. “Well. Blackwall’s not Blackwall. I can’t move one of my arms. Corypheus has an advantage over a limping Inquisitor. And I managed to push away the people I cared about most at the Winter Palace.” I duck my head, guilt and fear washing over me and pulling at a knot in my stomach.

            But then there’s a kiss pressed on my forehead. “You’re alive. Maker forgive me, but that’s all I really care about at the moment.”

            “What?” I look up then, at the man with the scar on his lip and the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. “Even after…?”

            Cullen’s grip around my waist tightens. “Even after.”

            _He’s holding. And he’s not letting go._

Air rushes back to my lungs as the tightness melts away. I tilt my chin up to press my mouth to his.

            My heart pounds in my chest, but this time I think it’s flying instead of sinking. Somehow, the kiss deepens, and I’m not sure how or when but it doesn’t matter because I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing or anywhere else I’d rather be other than this damp prison cell with Cullen. But we’re kissing slowly, and it’s not so cold anymore, and—

            Someone coughs very loudly.

            Cullen and I break apart, though he keeps his hands on my waist to support me. It’s the Orlesian guards.

            _Maker, please strike me with lightning or create a hole for me to crawl into._

Heat rushes to my face. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I don’t suppose you could just… forget about that?”

            “Consider it forgotten, your worship.” One of the guards answers, and they both turn to face the entrance to the prison, away from us.

            I cringe, looking back at Cullen, who, if anything, seems mostly annoyed with only faint color in his cheeks at all.

            “I meant to give you this.” Cullen picks up the papers from a table beside us. “It’s a report from Leliana.”

            “Right. We have to deal with the Blackwall not being Blackwall crisis.” I’m still wincing, keeping my voice quiet. “I’ll need to apologize to you later. And explain. I promise I won’t lock any doors this time. But right now, we have to figure this out together.”

            Cullen nods. “Together,” he agrees.

                       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Have Cullen kisses to start 2016. ;)


	37. Stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold.

I’m laughing to the point where my ribs hurt and I have to gasp for breath.

            “Come on, Fee! Don’t screw it up now,” Sera cackles as I struggle to hold the bow steady with my good arm.

            Sera, standing flush against my back, is drawing the string back.

            It’s like a scene out of a romantic novel I read, where the knight teachers the princess how to shoot an arrow, breathing lightly as tentative fingers brush.

            Except Sera and I are chortling and acting like giddy children.

            “Want to rethink your bet, Varric?” I ask as Sera and I aim together.

            “Not a chance, Bright Eyes.” Varric answers, running his fingers over Bianca’s polished side.

            Sera and I gambled that we could take Varric at an archery contest using only one arm each.

            We’re currently tied with Varric, and quite the audience has gathered, cheering and shouting at each shot. Skyhold’s gardens have probably never seen quite this type of event. Maybe I should ask Solas if one-armed archery contests were ever a thing.

            “Ready, Sera?”

            “Shuddit and shoot!” Sera half-shouts at me.

            So, still laughing so hard I’m not sure if we’re aiming correctly, the arrow flies away from us, impaling the apple that sits on a stone bench from across the garden.

            The onlookers burst into wild applause, and Varric whistles lightly. “Impressive. One more round to break the tie?”

            “You want your ass handed to you again, yeah?” Sera swaggers a bit.

            “I don’t know—seems like Varric is doing just fine.” Bull crosses his arms from where he leans against an archway column.

            “Give credit where credit’s due, Bull. Bianca’s doing most of the work,” I wink at Varric as Sera helps me put down the bow.

            It’s been three days since our return to Skyhold. I can better move my left leg, but my bad arm—it still just hangs like dead weight. Well, my fingers twitch sometimes, which Solas claims is a good sign. Morrigan will be arriving to assist (and I’m mostly sure she means spy) with the Inquisition along with Blackwall—Rainier, who Josephine says will need to be judged.

            I intend to get the hell out of Skyhold before Blackwall arrives.

            “Commander!”

            I turn to see several of the Inquisition soldiers who had previously been lounging around in the grass up on their feet, standing at attention.

            Cullen waves them off, and I can’t help but smile a bit when I see him.

            His face looks healthier since we returned—and his lips pull up when he sees me as well, though he’s still every bit the authority figure as he strides toward me. “Inquisitor. You’re needed at the War Table.”

            “Of course, Commander.” I answer, looking over my shoulder at Varric. “Call it a draw?”

            “Ah, shite.” Sera groans. “I want to _win_.”

            Varric just chuckles. “It’s a draw.”

            I flash them a grin as the Inquisition soldiers, scouts, and other onlookers start to stretch and chatter.

            Falling in step next to Cullen, we walk out of the garden together. He intentionally slows his pace so I can keep up with my weaker leg.

            “I’m reminded of a time in Haven when I asked you to do an archery demonstration—and was refused.” Cullen comments quietly as he opens the door to the main hall.

            I raise my eyebrows and glance at his expression, which is one of amusement. I blink as we brush past nobles gossiping. “I forgot about that. I guess it feels different when I have Sera breathing down my neck and making terrible jokes. And it’s… easier now. The Inquisition feels less like two-faced nobles waiting for you to screw up and more like friends who want a good laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.”

            Josephine’s study is empty as we pass through. “They look up to you,” Cullen comments. “You’re not just the Inquisitor to them—you’ve been known for quite some time for your... blasphemous language. Your jokes with Sera became wide-spread as well. And the story is still repeated about how you were the person who hit me in the face with a snowball. I’m sure they’d all have liked to do the same at some point.”

            I snort as Cullen and I stop in the hall that leads to the War Room. “That wasn’t exactly intentional.”

            Cullen smirks. “Yes, well—it was a moment the recruits from Haven will play over in their minds when I have them repeat a drill for the tenth time.”

            “Their strict Commander caught off-guard by a bit of snow?” I tease, still remembering the look of utter shock on his face.

            Cullen leans forward to kiss the bridge of my nose. “Caught off-guard by the woman who started a snow fight while the world was falling apart.”

            I grin at him before tilting my chin up to catch his mouth with mine. “You can’t be doom and gloom all the time.”

            “I suppose not.” Cullen murmurs, smiling softly as his fingers lift to trace the curve of my cheek. “How are you feeling? Solas said your left arm might regain its strength yet.”

            My eyes narrow. “Checking in on me with Solas?”

            Cullen winces sheepishly as his hand moves to the back of his neck. “I, um, happened to run into him earlier today. And we’ve both been so busy after our return to Skyhold I hadn’t had the chance to ask you myself.”

            I wrinkle my nose. “ _You’ve_ been busy with reports. _I’ve_ been stuck doing exercises for hours at a time.” I place my good hand on his arm and give it a gentle squeeze. “I’m fine, Cullen. Really.”

            Cullen frowns, the worry lines appearing across his forehead, between his eyes. “There’s trouble in Emprise du Lion—and your presence has been requested. I intended for us to discuss it with Josephine and Leliana in the War Room, but—”

            “Bull told me earlier this morning. I’m planning on leaving in a day or two.” _Before Blackwall gets here, at any rate. Shit, I should leave tomorrow just in case._

“What?” Cullen’s frown deepens. “Are you sure? You… can you use a bow?”

            “Not right now. But I can use a dagger—and I’ll take Cass and Bull with me. And Solas.”

            “Are you sure that’s wise?”

            “It’s necessary,” I answer grimly. “Fortunately the poison didn’t affect the mark, and Solas says it should still work on the rifts. And it’s possible that I’ll continue to recover on the way there.”

            Cullen studies me for a moment before exhaling slowly, his eyes tired. “If you weren’t the Inquisitor, I would argue. It’s not safe for you to be out fighting before you’ve fully recovered.”

            I look at my boots. “We don’t know _if_ I’ll fully recover, Cullen. I can’t sit around and wait for that to happen. I made promises as Inquisitor, and I intend to keep them.”

            “I know,” Cullen murmurs. I raise my eyes as he brushes loose waves of hair away from my face. “Just… please be careful. I don’t want to lose you again.”

            “You make it sound like nearly dying is a hobby of mine,” I lean into his touch, resting my forehead on his shoulder, not really minding the cool hardness of his armor.

            “It happens often enough that one could assume so,” Cullen answers, wrapping his arms around me.

            “Not _that_ often,” I retort, voice slightly muffled.

            “At the conclave explosion, the attack on Haven, the bandit incident, the fade, and the Winter Palace?” Cullen lists, resting his chin gently on top of my head.

            _And on the Storm Coast when I almost got decapitated. And in the Western Approach when the demon almost caught me._

I decide not to mention those and settle for a few more moments with the warmth radiating from Cullen’s body.

            “I’ll be careful,” I say instead.

            Cullen presses a kiss to my hair, his arms tightening a little around me. “That’s all I can ask.”


End file.
